


Myopic Meanderings

by The_Winter_Straw



Series: Where Gods Do Fear to Tread [6]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst, Drama, F/M, POV Second Person, Pregnancy, Reader is Tony Stark's Daughter, Reader-Insert, Sexual Situations, Teenage Pregnancy, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2020-02-28
Packaged: 2020-11-23 03:44:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 25,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20885579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Winter_Straw/pseuds/The_Winter_Straw
Summary: The best laid plans of mice and men often go awry, the best laid plans of teenagers even more so.





	1. How It Happened

**Author's Note:**

> I know, crummy title. In my defense, on every other website, I have this all under the title of the series here and just mark the beginnings and ends of the separate portions. I'm running out of title ideas that don't sound _completely_ cheesy.
> 
> Anyway, I didn't mark this as underage because it's two teenagers discussing having sex, but nothing actually having it on the page. If you would like me to go back and mark it as underage for the warning, I will gladly do so. I just wasn't sure if I should or not. I'm sure you can guess what kind of complicated pregnancy _this_ story will entail, and I intended to tackle it seriously.

The air of Queens, New York tasted better at night. Clear and cold, it burned your lungs as you stepped out of the cab you’d taken from Manhattan. You took a big enough gulp of it to make the stars above your head spin. It was exhilarating. Nothing like what you’d have found in your old hometown of Franklin, Tennessee. Or maybe you only felt that way because of the mischief you were up to: out after curfew on a school night, alone in a big city, with no one any the wiser regarding your whereabouts. 

If you had anything to say about it, those last two facts wouldn’t stay true for long. You grinned wickedly as the taxi rejoined the stream of traffic at your back. It was dark and you’d hardly said a word to your driver outside of informing him of your destination. Having thought ahead and withdrawn enough cash to pay for a round trip instead of using a card with your name on it had been a stroke of genius, too. Now your little clandestine jaunt wouldn’t end up on the news where your dad could see it. He would remain just as you wanted him: blissfully ignorant of your illicit activities. 

Hopefully they would be just as illicit as you wanted, too. Otherwise you had chosen a very poor outfit for your long wait in the cold for a second taxi. The large coat that billowed around your legs as you climbed the apartment building stairs allowed the November wind spaces through which to sting the skin below. You were shivering violently by the time you knocked on the appropriate door. 

A bit of a commotion issued from inside—someone coming to check who was at the door, you assumed. You struck a pose for their benefit. It could only be _one_ person, unless your plan had gone very, very awry. Then the scrape of the chain being unlatched reached your waiting ears, and the door flew upon to reveal Peter Parker looking exactly as surprised as you had dreamed. 

“[Name]? What are you doing here?” 

It was far too cold to play games that night, so you didn’t wait for an invitation to enter before you swept inside. He was sweet enough to step aside and quickly shut the door behind you to keep out the worst of the bitter breeze. You had to grin when he continued to look confused about your presence when he turned to face you. 

“Don’t look so surprised. I’m here to see you, obviously. You’re alone, right?” you asked. 

“Yeah, but—how did _you_ know that?” 

“My dad. He mentioned that your aunt had a date with Happy tonight. So there’s one.” You ticked the reasons off on your fingers. “He’s busy with the team. I happen to be well aware that he’s working on some upgrades for your suit, so you’re off duty for the week. And you told me yourself that Ned is grounded for upping his family’s cellphone bill calling you so much.” 

None of this lessened Peter’s resemblance to a deer in the headlights. “Does Mr. Stark know you’re here?” 

“No,” you said, and advanced on him slowly, causing him to press himself backward against the same door through which you’d just entered. 

“How did you get away without him noticing?” 

“I disabled FRIDAY’s motion sensors for the family entrance and ran a program modeling my biometrics from my laptop. Come on. Give me _some_ credit. I _am_ a Stark.” 

“What about _Mrs._ Stark?” 

You rolled your eyes as you hooked a hand behind Peter’s neck to pull his face closer to yours. “Pepper’s in the middle of a big project for the company. She’ll be on a conference call to Malibu all night. _No one_ knows I’m here, and I’ll be back at home before Dad’s finished rescuing Rotruvia _and_ Happy’s done romancing your aunt.” 

“You went to all that trouble just to come see me?” he asked. _Finally_ you saw a hint of that geeky smile of his that sent your heart into overdrive. 

“Idiot.” You planted a swift kiss on his mouth. “I love you. Besides, we _never_ get a chance to spend time _alone_ together. There’s always some adult around. Your aunt, or my dad, or Pepper, or Happy, or Steve. You got Netflix?” 

“Who doesn’t have Netflix?” 

“Good. I brought the popcorn. Race you to the couch!” 

A much wider smile flashed across Peter’s face that time. Then he vanished from view. Startled, you turned on the spot just in time to see him land on the Parker’s battered old sofa. He lifted his hands and shook back his sleeves so that you could see the devices strapped to his wrists. 

“Should have known you were still wearing the web-shooters,” you grumbled. 

“So,” he patted the spot next to him, “what do I win?” 

He could have had no way of knowing what that question sparked inside you. All your careful planning came to a head after that single inquiry. Suddenly you weren’t so sure that it had all been worth it. You’d meant what you’d said earlier: you _did_ love Peter. You _wanted_ to be with him. But he was so…well, judging by the way he’d flung himself onto the nearest piece of furniture at the suggestion of binging a few episodes of _Stranger Things_ with you, his mind clearly wasn’t going to same place yours was. 

“[Name]? You okay?” he asked. 

Your choices were obvious: you could sit down and say nothing, keep your coat on, and enjoy the evening with your boyfriend—or you could seize the opportunity he’d offered unwittingly and show him what you _really_ wanted…at the risk of ruining _everything_. What if Peter _didn’t_ feel the same way about you as you did about him? What if he told your dad what you’d proposed? What if he decided you were some sort of slut? 

Peter sat up with a frown, all traces of enthusiasm gone. In their place was obvious concern. “Are you sick? Should I call your dad?” 

“No!” You winced at the shrill note in your voice. Blood rushed to your face. With it, however, came determination. If he didn’t love you, he wouldn’t care enough to risk bringing your father’s wrath down on both of you over a simple cold. He wasn’t going to break up with you _or_ say you were a slut. Telling your dad what you were up to was out as well, seeing as he’d be just as likely to punish Peter for your misdeeds as you. And when would you ever be handed such a perfect opening line again anyway? 

Summoning the last of your courage, you shot a quick look at the living room and kitchen windows to confirm curtains were drawn over both, took a deep breath, and dropped your coat from your shoulders so that it pooled around your feet. 

His eyes went wide. “Uh, [Name]? Why are you wearing shorts and a tank top in the middle of November?” 

“Hold on. Just—give me a minute. I’m not finished.” Your fingers shook so hard with nerves that you found it difficult to undo the zipper on your bottoms. It took a few minutes to finally free yourself of all your clothing save your panties and bra. Standing there like that in front of Peter made you feel unexpectedly exposed. If _this_ felt that bad, how the heck were you supposed to strip _more_ later? 

Peter stared at you. His dark brown eyes remained glued to your head as though it were a magnet. Your blush deepened; you stuffed your fingers into your armpits. 

“Do I look that bad?” you asked in what you hoped came out as a teasing tone. 

“No,” was Peter’s quick reply, but his eyes didn’t move an inch. 

“I-I know it isn’t much. _I_ thought it looked okay, but…I suppose I could buy some _real_ lingerie for next time, if there’s a next time, or even a first time, but I can’t exactly ask Pepper for advice and Natasha would say something if I asked her…” 

You were babbling. The realization forced you to trail off. Of all the reactions you’d imagined Peter would have upon seeing your (mostly) naked body, abject horror hadn’t occurred to you. But you were only fifteen! Most girls your age didn’t have a drawer full of Victoria’s Secret prepped for losing their virginity, right? At least your bra and panties _matched_. They were nicer than what you typically wore to school or around the house, too! 

The longer you stood there frozen with mortification, the more difficult it seemed for Peter to keep his eyes locked on yours. Slowly, slowly, inch by inch, his gaze moved down until it was focused directly on your cleavage. 

He looked up at you again with an expression of dawning comprehension. “You want to Netflix and Chill! With _me_!” 

Your stomach unclenched as you heaved an enormous sigh of relief. Peter wasn’t stupid. If he had been, your father wouldn’t have taken as much of a shine to him. His understanding what you were getting had never been your greatest fear, though. _That_ still remained to be tested. 

“I say we just cut out the Netflix part entirely now,” you said with a smile. 

“You want to skip right to the chill?” 

“Only if you want to. I want you to be my first. If—if _you’re_ ready. I’ll wait. I’d wait forever for you, Peter. I—” 

You cut yourself off with a yelp of surprise. While you’d been busy blathering again, he had stood from the sofa and picked you right up off the floor. God, you _loved_ this “proportional strength of a spider” business. What _other_ boy your age could carry you bridal-style like that? 

“I want to,” he said. 

That got a joyful squeal out of you. As a reward, you looped your arms around his neck and stretched upward to kiss him hard on the mouth. One last hurdle remained then: 

“You do have condoms, right, Peter?” 

His pause caused your heart to rattle around your chest like it had come loose. To have come so close only to fail at the final stretch would have been a crushing disappointment. Then he shifted you so that he had a better grip and answered, “Yeah. They gave us one in Health and Safety. I’ve got it in my wallet in my room.” 

“Then let’s go!” you said, fluttering your feet excitedly in the air. 

Without any further convincing necessary on your part, Peter carried you into his bedroom. There he deposited you onto his bed while he searched the mounds of Spider-Man paraphernalia scattered across the floor until he found what he was looking for. Afterward—once you’d got home, changed into your pajamas, and bid Pepper (who was indeed still on the phone with Stark Industries) goodnight—you couldn’t help but reflect on how perfectly the evening had gone. If sneaking out to be with Peter was always this easy, you would have to do it again _real_ soon.


	2. Finding Out

You had never truly considered yourself to be a “bad kid” growing up. With a sometimes-bouncer, sometimes-bodyguard for a mother for most of your life, opportunities to break the rules were thin on the ground. Your mom had known all the tricks long before you were born. Sure, there were occasions when you acted out, times you called her names, and it wasn’t as though you’d never lied to her about doing your homework or refused to clean your room—but all of that was _normal_ for children your age. Any _real_ acts of rebellion hadn’t so much as occurred to you for the most part. No wonder she had been so reluctant to tell your dad about you! Just look what was happening now: only two years of living with Tony Stark and you _knew_ you had your mother spinning in her grave. 

Well, okay. “Just now” you were standing outside your high school doing nothing more scandalous than waiting for Happy to come pick you up. It was more the _why_ you were there that would have horrified your mom so much. A typical Monday would have seen you _long_ gone from campus by the present time of 4:35, but you had told your dad and Pepper that you needed to stay late to work on a group project. This was a bald-faced lie; there was no such project, no such group, and no such reason for you to still be at school that late in the afternoon. 

_If_ that lie had been your only bad choice that day, you might have considered being forced to remain outside in the mid-December frost in nothing but your school uniform and coat punishment enough. You only _wished_ that lying was the worst of your sins, though, when in reality that was only the tip of the iceberg. The rest of the iceberg sat crammed inside your messenger bag beneath the numerous textbooks and folders and binders you needed to take home. That single box seemed to make your bag weigh a ton, dragging your shoulder closer and closer to the ground the longer it took for Happy to show up. 

Every minute he failed to arrive was another minute that you might get caught. Frowning, you risked a looked behind yourself at the wide windows that overlooked the school grounds. No one stood watching behind them. Of course not. You had been just as careful that afternoon as on the night you’d sneaked out to see Peter. The pharmacy you had visited was still stuffed with girls in uniforms identical to yours when you went inside it, and _surely_ your lack of usual makeup and hair supplies had kept any of the workers there from realizing that Iron Man’s daughter was purchasing a— 

A car behind you honked. You jumped as you turned back around to find Happy loitering at the curb. 

“Hey, kiddo,” he said through the open window. “You look like hell.” 

“Thanks, Happy,” you replied, opening the back door nearest to you and crawling inside. Thank _God_ your dad hadn’t chosen that day as one of his random ones to join Happy in picking you up. Plenty of room on the black leather seats to throw your messenger bag as far away from you as possible, then. 

“No problem. Rough day? I always hated group projects. You either get ostracized or stuck with all the work.” 

You made a noncommittal noise in the back your throat while Happy pulled around the corner and your school disappeared from view. 

“That bad, huh? You know, I bet your dad could call in a few favors and get you out of it.” 

“No!” 

The swiftness of your answer earned you a sharp look in the rear view mirror from Happy. You did your best to arrange your returning expression into a weak smile. Your lack of popularity at your school—once the initial shock of Tony Stark’s secret daughter enrolling there wore off—was well-known by _everyone_ in your home. Happy wasn’t making his suggestion because he wanted to expose your lie. He was just worried about you. That was all. 

“I don’t want to be known as the kid who uses her dad to get special treatment,” you explained. “Besides, it’s just _one_ group project. Christmas break starts next week. I can handle anything for a week.” 

Happy chuckled. “It’s not exactly being held by terrorists, but it’s close. If you’re anything like your dad, you’ll manage just fine.” 

Hidden behind the tinted windows of the vehicle, you finally allowed your tensed muscles to unwind. No one had followed you to the store or back. Happy believed you were exhausted from an assignment. Everything was going to be okay. No way could you have got this far with your mother still alive, though; she’d have contacted the school to make sure there really _was_ a group project before ever agreeing to leave you at school late—and that had been _before_ you were publicly a Stark. 

A pang of guilt resounded through your chest at the thought that you were taking advantage of your dad. You shoved the sensation away the best you could. Only one more hurdle to jump now: getting to your bedroom without attracting the attention of your father or his wife or any of the other Avengers members that might be staying at the tower that night. You would know soon enough whether or not you would need to come clean to all of them. If you did, then you would, but if not, was it really so bad to let your father keep thinking you were a good kid? 

Somehow you managed to keep up a façade of normality for the duration of the drive. Happy stopped the car just outside the family entrance to Stark Tower. Your hands shook slightly as you grabbed your school things and stepped back outside. Hopefully he would just assume that was a byproduct of the bitter cold. Without so much as a thank you, you made a beeline for the door. 

“[Name]!” Happy called before you could try the handle. 

You turned with a sinking heart. “Yeah?” 

“You’ll get through this.” 

“Huh?” 

Nerves flooded your system so badly in that moment that you struggled to think straight. How did he _know_? Happy couldn’t have worked out that it had been a little over four weeks since your last period…could he? Sometimes you _did_ have to beg him to buy tampons for you on his way to pick you up. But your period could be all over the place and he had better things to do than keep track of your cycle, right? And _surely_ you hadn’t mentioned your sore breasts to your dad’s driver of all people! If _he_ knew, then Pepper knew, and if _Pepper_ knew…Oh, God, you were in _so much_ trouble! 

Happy gave you a strange look. “You’ll get through the project. You’re a smart kid in your own right. They’ll figure that out soon enough.” 

“Oh.” Your sigh of relief blew a great cloud of moisture into the air. “Thanks, Happy. Thanks for the ride, too.” 

“Hey, your dad pays me to do it. I wouldn’t bother otherwise.” 

“Right.” 

His window rolled up once more before he drove off toward the entrance to the garage. You turned back to the door with your heart hammering hard enough that Mjölnir might have got stuck inside your chest. _Just one more hurdle,_ you reminded yourself. Your dad was probably busy anyway. Pepper required constant reminding that she was pregnant, or so he seemed to believe. 

The door unlocked as soon as it was close enough to read your biometrics. You pushed it open slowly, ears straining to hear if anyone was waiting for you in the entrance. No voices drifted out of the crack. 

“Hello?” you said as you stuck your head inside. 

No one answered. No one appeared. Unable to withstand the weather any longer in your skirt, you quickly stepped inside. A better look around the space showed you that your original assessment had been correct: you were alone. This was nearly a miracle. Your dad took his role as father _very_ seriously, especially having missed so many milestones while he wasn’t aware you existed. Thankfully, the impending arrival of your half-sibling seemed to be taking some of the attention of you for the time being. 

After adjusting the strap on your bag, you headed for the gleaming metal doors of the elevator on that floor. You figured that between your late return and Pepper’s refusal to slow down for so much as a minute that your dad would be far too busy to remember to make sure you were doing your homework. Dinner, if it came at all, would not be until much later in the evening. So long as you didn’t run into any surprises on your way to your bedroom, you were safe. 

The trouble with living in such a tall building was that it always took forever and a day for the elevator to get to whatever floor it got called to. Taking the stairs would leave you out in the open for even longer, though, so you stayed put and waited…and waited…and waited until, after what felt like long enough to fully incubate a human baby, the button above the doors lit up. 

“Finally,” you muttered, stepping toward the opening door. Much longer, and you would have risked running into your father after all. 

“Woah, woah, _woah_. Did I or did I not _just_ make an edict last month stating that the elevator must be _empty_ before anyone waiting for gets on?” 

…_or_ you could just literally run into him here. He gently pushed you backward as he moved off the lift. As if _his_ appearance wasn’t bad enough already, he wasn’t alone. _Steve_ was with him, and if his not heading straight for the exit as soon as _he_ got off the elevator was any indication, he wasn’t in the process of heading for his own apartment for the night. 

“What are you guys doing here?” you blurted out in a panic. 

Your dad lifted an eyebrow. “I _own_ here. I wanted to come see how your project went, too.” 

Like an idiot, you threw a terrified look at Steve. He was _Captain America_ for crying out loud! You couldn’t _lie_ in front of Captain America. The only way things could have been worse was if they had brought "living lie detector" Natasha Romanoff with them. 

“That bad, huh?” your dad asked sympathetically. 

“N-No.” You wrenched your eyes off Steve’s face to focus them on your father’s. “No, it was fine. Went great. They all really appreciate my input. There are no problems with my schoolwork that you need to call a teacher about.” 

“You okay? You don’t still have that stomach flu, do you?” 

You swatted away the hand he reached for your forehead, and let out a nervous laugh. “I’m fine. Just had a really long day, and I’ve got a ton of algebra homework to do, and as much as I’d love to stay and chat over an after school snack…” 

The hand dropped. He stepped aside. “Go ahead. I’ll have FRIDAY call you when it’s time for dinner.” 

“Thanks.” 

Before you could make it the three steps to the elevator, however, Steve called your name. You couldn’t exactly ignore him either. He could probably sense moral deviation after his super serum. After a moment’s hesitation, you turned around to look at him. 

“Can you help me settle a bet real quick? Promise I won’t take up too much of your time,” he said. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw your dad roll his eyes. 

“What kind of bet?” you asked hesitantly. 

“What do _you_ think Pepper is having? I say a boy, because she’s carrying low. Your dad says that’s a load of…malarkey.” 

You highly doubted those were the words he had used, but didn’t want to waste any breath contradicting Steve. “Everyone knows you can’t tell the sex of a baby by carrying nowadays, Cap. It’s a myth. Anyway, the ultrasound’s on Friday. We’ll all know soon enough what horror my dad has brought into the world this time around.” 

“A horror like you, you mean?” said your dad. 

“If only you’re that lucky,” you answered. 

Looking bemused, Steve took out his wallet, pulled a twenty-dollar bill from it, and handed the cash to your dad. You knew he didn’t need it, but he pocketed the money anyway, then looked at you and gestured for you to go on your way. 

You were dismissed. Without waiting to see if either of them could think of anything _else_ to keep you around for, you dashed onto the waiting elevator. The _last_ thing you needed was to hang around until Pepper showed up to ask you about your group project, too. _She_ might actually call the school to ask about it if your dad didn’t start fussing over her enough to distract her. 

“My bedroom, please, FRIDAY,” you said once your feet were firmly planted inside the lift. 

“Right away, Miss Stark.” 

The doors slid shut over the concerned looks shared by Steve and your dad. Apparently they had noticed how breathless you sounded just then, too. You shook your head and tried to cleanse your memory of the image. Your infamous lack of popularly at school was all they were worried about. They had no idea what the real issue here was—not yet, anyway. 

As soon as the doors opened again, you raced down the hallway of the floor shared by Pepper, your dad, and yourself. The former was probably still in her office on that same floor. Time was of the essence; she wasn’t far enough along to be slowed down by the baby weight. Once you were hidden from everyone’s view at last, you dumped the entire contents of your bag onto your bed, sifted through the debris until you found the box containing your pregnancy test, and then ran for your private adjoined bathroom. 

It wasn’t a difficult test. In fact, it was easier than most tests you had for school You almost wished it took a little longer, because the evidence was soon in: you were officially a bad girl. Not only was your dad about to become a father for the second time, he was about to become a grandfather as well.


	3. How You Told Him

Perhaps lying about having a group project to finish in addition to all your usual end of semester exams had _not_ been your greatest idea. Neglectful though he might have been in regards to double checking that your after school activities truly existed, your father did _not_ slack off in ensuring you kept up with your studies. Every moment that he wasn’t distracted by the impending arrival of his second child he spent with you, drilling you with Spanish flashcards, going over your physics review sheet, even quizzing you for your English test with the help of SparkNotes. He seemed to think that your good grades would convince all the other girls to like you—because what had always attracted everyone to _him_ was his ability to solve complicated equations in his head, obviously. 

His enthusiasm unfortunately prevented you from seeing Peter for the rest of the week. It was a _long_ week, too. You didn’t dare give him the news over the phone; texting wasn’t any less risky; and every single minute that you put things off was a minute that you continued to lie to your father. Your nausea could have been from morning sickness _or_ guilt now, and it only got worse the longer you waited. Seven days of agony followed your purchase of that pregnancy test. Only upon the following Monday—when he was free from school for two whole weeks—did Peter arrive at the tower. 

Not that that had put an end to your misery, however. Peter hadn’t come to see you. No, he’d come to run drills with the rest of the team. He had been at it _all day_. By four o’ clock, you could no longer feign complete disinterest in his whereabouts and left the safety of your bedroom to hunt him out yourself. No more asking FRIDAY for regular updates; that would only arouse suspicion if your dad looked at the logs. Unfortunately, Peter was exactly where she had said he would be that last time you had asked her: the training hall. 

You stood outside in the attached room to watch through the one-way windows. Some exercise or another remained in full swing upon your arrival. Your dad—the flash of red and gold high at the top of the room—had quite an impressive hologram rig in use in there. Through the fake smoke and not-so-fake explosions you could also see your boyfriend in bright blue and red, using Steve’s shield to propel himself through the air. 

“Is he _ever_ going to come out of there?” you wondered aloud, just in time for a very sweaty, very rumpled Clint Barton to come through the nearby door that led to the training hall. 

“I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting,” he answered cheerfully. “That boy of yours is _real_ dedicated.” 

“I know that.” 

You couldn’t entirely suppress the note of pride that crept into your voice, even if you _were_ frustrated with Peter’s dedication at the moment. He was an amazing guy. No other boys you’d met were so devoted to serving others. Peter saved lives voluntarily, on the regular, without asking for recognition of anything else in return. That he wanted to be with _you_ of all people—a girl with no powers or great acts of kindness to her name, only a famous father—was nothing short of a miracle…a miracle, you realized, that just might come to an end once he heard your news. 

“Hey, don’t look so pensive. I’m sure he’ll be out in time for dinner. Isn’t there something else you could do while you’re waiting than sit there and watch? You know, paint your nails, braid your hair. Girl stuff.” 

“Is that what Lila does in _her_ spare time?” you asked. 

Clint’s grin made clear what you already knew: He was teasing you. As you glared playfully back (as playfully as you could under the circumstances, anyway), he snatched up a thin white towel from the stack sitting on the nearby counter and dabbed at his glistening brow. 

“_She’s_ not allowed to date until she’s forty, so what’s the point? Speaking of Lila, she’s been asking about you lately.” 

“She has?” 

“Yeah, she wants you to come over again. She’s thinking sleepover. You interested?” 

“Of course I am!” 

“Great. I’ll ask your dad about it when he comes out of there. Maybe we can arrange for something this weekend.” 

“Oh. I’m not so sure about _this_ weekend.” 

“Why not?” Clint frowned, slowly lowering his towel. “Already got plans with Pete?” 

The truth was that you didn’t think your father would be letting you go _anywhere_ after you came clean to him, even if _anywhere_ was the Barton ranch. Never mind your dad’s constant dalliances (including those with your own mother), _you_ were to be held to a higher standard. He thought you had escaped inheriting the worst of his personality. When he found out otherwise, he was going to be _crushed_. It wouldn’t matter that Lila lived in the middle of nowhere with no one but her parents and little brothers for company. Even if your dad _did_ decide such a sleepover would be safe, Pepper certainly wouldn’t. Letting Clint set up said playdate would mean someone would have to call and cancel it. Then _all_ the Bartons would find out about your not-so-little secret. 

“[Name]? Earth to [Name]. You still with me?” asked Clint. 

“No, I…” 

Luckily, you were spared having to think of an excuse that wouldn’t make it sound like you wanted nothing to do with the _one_ girl on the face of the planet that didn’t hate you. Just as Clint looked as though he were about to ask if you were going to throw up again and if he needed to call your dad over, the door to the training room opened a second time. In popped the boy you’d been waiting for for so long. 

“Oh, hey, [Name],” Peter said as he peeled off his mask. “What are you doing here?” 

All that lead up and his faint smile already had your legs turning to jelly. It was a wonder you were able to summon up enough to courage to reply, “Waiting for you. I’ve got something I want to show you upstairs.” 

“Don’t you want me to clean up first? I should definitely take a shower—” 

“Now.” You leaned over to grasp his hand. 

He stilled and shot you a confused look. “Okay. If you say so.” 

Before he could change his mind or get caught up discussing battle strategies with Clint for another three hours, you yanked Peter toward the hall leading to the elevator. He stumbled after you with a faint cry of surprise. 

“Er…see you later, Mr. Barton!” he called over his shoulder. 

You stopped in the doorway to look back at the man watching you both from the center of the room. “I’ll look at my calendar and find out when I can come see Lila. Promise. Dad’ll call once I work out my schedule.” 

Clint nodded, brow still furrowed. The expression on his face caused a cascade of ice-like nerves to fall into your stomach. You tried to ignore the sensation and move on without attracting more attention. Soon enough, he was hidden from view by both the door that led to the observation booth and those belonging to the elevator. Your relieved sigh hissed loudly in the silence that followed. 

“You okay, [Name]?” Peter asked. He shifted his hand inside yours to get a better grip. 

“I’m fine,” you answered. 

“You sure? I haven’t heard from you in days.” 

“Dad had busy me studying. I just now found the time to breathe.” 

He nodded, and said nothing more. His hand remained in yours for the duration of the trip to the tower’s highest floor. All the while, his deep brown eyes roved across your face. You tried not to show any signs of your fear in your expression, but couldn’t do anything to stop the pulse ramming through your body. Could Peter feel your heart beating that hard where your palms connected? 

The elevator open up again an eternity later. At last Peter let go of you, probably because he didn’t want Pepper to catch you both wandering around like that in your private area. He needn’t have worried. A lot of kids had rules about having members of the opposite sex in their bedrooms: hours they were allowed inside, doors that had to remain open, people that had to be informed. Not so you. For the time being, your father trusted you, and you intended to take advantage of that while you still could. After he followed you inside, you closed the door and turned to find him standing in the center of the room and staring at you. 

“You’re breaking up with me,” he said. 

The statement drew you up short, driving all thoughts of how best to get on the subject of babies from your mind. “What? What are you talking about?” you asked. 

Peter approached you slowly. His hands twisted the mask he held between them at an alarming rate. “Did I do something wrong? I’m sorry. I didn’t even realize it. Please don’t do this, [Name]. Whatever I did, I’ll make it up to you, I _promise_.” 

“Peter—” 

“Was it—was it the…sex?” he lowered his voice upon that word. “I’m sorry if it was bad. It was only my first time!” 

“I’m not—” 

“I don’t know how I’m going to explain to Mr. Stark that I did something to get his daughter to break up with me! He’ll kick me off the team for sure!” 

“I’m not breaking up with you!” you shouted. 

“You’re…not?” 

“No.” Although that didn’t mean your dad wouldn’t kick him off the team for what you were about to tell him. You thought it best not lead with that, however. 

“Then why are you acting so weird?” he asked. 

That question was all it took. One moment, you stood in front of him trying to calm him down; the next, your own legs seemed unable to support your weight. Tears spilled over your bottom eyelids and splashed down your cheeks. 

“[N-Name]?” 

Before you could hit the carpeted floor, he caught you and guided you carefully over to your bed. You collapsed onto the comforter without any break in your quiet tears. If you made any noise at all, Pepper would be sure to hear and come as quickly as her pregnancy would allow. Though you knew this, you couldn’t get yourself to stop crying. Seven days’ worth of fear and guilt continued to leak from your face. 

Peter just patted your shoulder for a long time. This didn’t exactly make you feel any better. You had lied to _him_ too, not to mention you were the one that had got yourself into this mess to begin with. If you hadn’t brought up having sex to him, you doubted he would have consider it until you were both in your twenties. Eventually, you crying did slow, and when you lifted your head, you found him holding out the Kleenex box you kept on your bedside table. You pulled out a single tissue and shoved it into your wet face. 

“Thanks,” you said hoarsely, voice a little muffled. 

“No problem.” 

Then Peter sat down next to you. He didn’t say another word while he waited for you to pull yourself together. You felt his heels hit the mattress a few times as he kicked his legs in and out in front of him. At last he seemed unable to wait any longer. “Something is wrong, right? You wouldn’t be crying if everything was fine,” he said. 

“I…It's fine.” 

“Then why are you crying?” 

Water filled your eyes again, but this time the tears were not allowed to run down your cheeks. “Because I’m pretty sure that _you’re_ about to break up with _me_.” 

“Never!” 

“You don’t even know why I think that.” 

“It doesn’t matter. I love you, [Name]. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Your hand clutching the Kleenex fell into your lap. Peter’s expression was so sincere. You wanted to believe him when he said sweet things like that. How could you, though, remembering how your mother had acted when she first found out that she was pregnant with you? Sure, your dad had accepted you, _after_ you’d ran away from your foster home to see him, after all the DNA tests confirmed what you claimed, after the media storm began to fade a bit. But if he had known about before—before Iron Man, before your mom died, before he won Pepper over…well, sometimes you wondered if you had revealed yourself to him _then_ if he would have been so accepting. 

Peter wasn’t your dad. For all the similarities between the two of them, they were _not_ cut from the same cloth. He was, however, also a superhero and a genius and a boy with a bright future ahead of him. Whether or not he was more like your father than you thought, you had to tell him. You couldn’t keep your baby a secret, not like your mother had before you. 

“Peter, I’m…” You swallowed, struggling for the right words. Your tongue felt like lead inside your mouth. “I’m…I didn’t plan for it to happen. I didn’t want this. I’m sorry, but—Peter, I’m…I’m pregnant.” 

He snapped to attention at once. His eyes went huge. You bit down on your heavy tongue as hard as you could to keep yourself from babbling further. It was his turn to talk now, his turn to react. A loud ringing started up in your ears in protest of your choice to remain silent. 

“You…You’re sure?” Peter asked after some time passed. 

You nodded. 

“You took a test.” 

You nodded. 

“Even though we used protection?” 

You nodded. 

A slow breath issued from his mouth. You braced yourself for the anger that would follow—but it never did. When Peter touched you again, it was only to pull you to his chest. His chin soon found the crown of your head. 

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered. 

“For what? It’s my fault.” 

“What do you mean, your fault?” 

“I _asked_ you to have sex with me. If I hadn’t, you wouldn’t have thought of it.” 

Peter’s snort shook the strands of hair beneath his nose. “That was _not_ the first time I thought of having sex with you.” 

Hesitantly, you pulled yourself away from him. A pleasant flutter soared through your veins. Hearing that should not have made you feel so pleased given pleasant circumstances, but somehow it did. “It wasn’t?” 

“No. But what are you gonna do? About the baby, I mean.” 

“I haven’t really thought that far ahead. I just…needed to tell you before I did anything else.” 

“And your dad doesn’t know yet?” 

“No.” 

“Yeah, figures.” He let out a breathy laugh. “He definitely wouldn’t have let me in the training room if he already knew.” 

“I’m going to tell him, Peter. I _have_ to.” 

Without explaining to him what you meant by that, you knew he understood. You weren’t going to get rid of the baby before it was born. Even if you tried, you doubted you’d succeed in managing to do so entirely in secret. Buying a pregnancy test without detection was one thing. Getting an abortion was another. So, sure, you could just not mention the baby to your dad, but he would find out eventually—or Pepper would, or Natasha, or a teacher at school, or (you shuddered at the thought) some journalist looking for a picture to plaster on the front of their tabloid for three months straight. Leaving things to chance was just too much of a risk for everyone involved. 

“I’ll have to tell May, too,” Peter said. 

You scooted back onto a free place on your bed to look at him. “Can you wait? Just a little? So I can tell my dad first?” 

He didn’t look thrilled by your request, and you knew why. Peter didn’t like lying to his aunt any more than you liked lying to your father. Just keeping her from finding out he was Spider-Man had been hard enough for him. That hadn't even worked out for long either. 

“It’s just,” you added quickly, “I know she’ll call my dad as soon as she finds out. I want to him to hear it from me first.” 

“You’re planning to tell him soon?” 

“Yeah! I don’t know when, exactly, but it _has_ to be soon. I just want to do it when the whole team isn’t—” 

A sharp knock on your bedroom door had you both springing apart. Peter actually jumped across the room, all the way to where your computer desk stood, while you just managed to leap closer to your headboard. 

“Come in!” you said, hoping you didn’t sound nearly as husky as before. You finished wiping your eyes with your tissue just in time for Pepper to stick her head in, too. 

“Peter, you’re here also. Good,” she said as she stepped inside. The swell of her pregnancy protruded obviously from between her hips. Your baby half-sister was going to be _huge_, though apparently you were the only person with that train of thought just then. 

Peter lifted a nervous hand in greeting. “Hey, Mrs. Stark.” 

She turned her sharp eyes on him. “I told you last time you called me that that if you did that again I would kick you out of the building.” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Thank you.” 

That having been arranged, Pepper’s turned her attention to you. You sat up a little straighter. Even pregnant, she seemed to command a level of decorum you never quite felt you could achieve. She was fine as far as step-mothers went. Her first words upon being introduced to you were, _“I’m not at all surprised to find out you had a kid somewhere,”_ and she’d gone on to marry your dad about year later anyway. Still you always felt nervous around her _normally_. Coming off the heels of a crying jag over a pregnancy that would never have happened if you’d only followed her rules didn’t exactly soothe such feelings. 

“I just came to ask you,” she said, and you held your breath waiting for her to say FRIDAY had been relaying your entire conversation to her, “to not schedule anything for this Friday night. You, too, Peter. I just got off the phone with May, and she and Happy will be coming over for a little pre-Christmas dinner. Isn’t that nice?” 

She didn’t sound entirely convinced herself, breathless and rubbing the swell of her stomach. The look you exchanged with Peter while she was distracted was one of shared horror. Unfortunately, she was not distracted long enough to miss the look entirely. 

“Something wrong?” she asked. 

“No!” you said in unison. 

“Sounds great,” Peter added. 

“Can’t wait,” you put in. 

Pepper looked suspiciously from your face to his before she turned laboriously to leave. “Sorry if we ruined date night, but it’s just one dinner. And what were you two doing in here with the door closed? It really ought to be open if you’re in there together.” 

As if to make her point, she did not shut the door behind her. She instead toddled off down the hall with further muttering about teenage hormones. A hysterical laugh almost burst from your chest over how close to being right she was—but this was not a laughing matter. Your eyes met Peter's for a second time. Obviously he was thinking the exact same thing that you were: now you had a deadline, and meeting it might make everything even worse.


	4. Surprise!

Over the course of your admittedly short life, you had learned one truth for certain: waiting was the greatest agony anyone could endure. Whether it was waiting for the cancer to take your mother’s life; waiting for the results of the DNA test to declare whether or not Tony Stark really was your father; or waiting for Peter to get around to asking you out, the times you spent without any recourse to act on your own always stood out as the worst. The week leading up to that fateful Christmas dinner with the Parkers (and Happy) was no different. You seemed to rush through every single activity in a haze of anxiety. Though you put a painstaking amount of effort into your hair and your makeup and your clothes that evening, you were still left with plenty of time to loiter in the entrance hall before they arrived. 

“Hey, kiddo. Good to see you out of your room for once,” your dad said as you stepped inside. 

You still hadn’t told him the truth. How could you? Pepper might not have been eager to have guests for the holidays, but your dad always was. Telling him you’d _slept_ with one of those guests would ruin not just his party but his entire Christmas. The only way you could even begin to quash the gnawing guilt in your stomach was to stay locked in your room—and you kind of wish you’d thought to stay there until everyone else got there that night, too. 

“You look nice,” he said into the uncomfortable silence. He wore a simple dark suit, something you hardly ever saw him in at home. Seeing that he'd dressed up as well came as some relief, since you’d sort of gone overboard with your own party clothes, if for no other reason than needing something to do with your hands. 

“Thanks,” you managed to mutter. “Is anyone else here yet?” 

“Just waiting on May, Peter, and Happy.” 

“So everyone else already got here?” 

Your dad shook his head. “It _is_ just them this year. Your Uncle Rhodey got called out on a last minute job.” 

“Steve and Bucky?” 

“Wanted to spend their first Christmas Eve as a married couple without having to argue with me over who gets the last piece of Pepper’s fudge.” 

Thank _God_. The fewer people you had to pretend in front of the better. Though you now had only five to worry about, you still felt mere inches away from completely losing your head. Some of this must have shown on your face, because your dad frowned and moved closer to you. 

“Are you that upset about not seeing Steve and Bucky for Christmas?” Before you could shake your head, he’d already moved on. “Nah, that’s stupid. You don’t want to share the fudge either. [Name], are you all right? You’ve been acting a little weird lately.” 

It was so much harder for you to pretend when he looked you right in the eyes like that. “Weird how?” you asked. 

“Just quiet. Hiding in your room all the time. Is that group project still bugging you? We could look into transferring you somewhere else if the girls are becoming a problem.” 

“No!” you said swiftly, and immediately regretted it. 

“No, that’s not what’s bothering you, or no, you don’t want to transfer schools? Because I thought we had a major blowout because you _wanted_ to go to school with Peter.” 

Why, oh why hadn’t you kept your big mouth shut? Now was _not_ the time to confess to your father that your preoccupation lay in the overwhelmingly terrifying knowledge that you were going to have a _baby_. Yes, you _had_ whined about going to Midtown School of Science and Technology before, but you _highly_ doubted your dad would be gung-ho about a transfer once he found out that even going to different schools had not prevented you from being alone with Peter long enough to get knocked up. 

An unusual worry line appeared in your father’s forehead. He placed both his hands on your shoulders. 

“What aren’t you telling me, [Name]?” he asked. 

You felt an intense pressure on the backs of your eyes as he gazed at you. When no one else had wanted you, he had taken you in. He was your _dad_. It wasn’t as though he’d never been in a similar position before; he just hadn’t been aware of it at the time. Surely he would still love you after you told him…but how he’d feel about Peter was an entirely different story. Then again, how long could you hold out just to keep Peter safe? 

A minute or two passed. Finally, you wilted under your father’s obvious concern. “Dad, I—” 

The elevator doors pulled open, cutting off your confession in the nick of time. 

“We’re here!” May called as she, Peter, and Happy swept into the foyer. May was wearing an absolutely beautiful sparkling dress in navy, Happy his usual black and white suit, and Peter…well, Peter had on an nice-looking suit of his own, but also an expression of blank horror that caused your stomach to jolt as though you’d missed a step coming down the stairs. 

Your father seemed to forget all about your conversation the second May came up to embrace him. “Hey, May.” He kissed her cheek. “_Hanukkah Sameach_.” 

“Ah! _Chag Sameach_ to you, too. Thanks so much for having us.” 

“Don’t mention it. I hate having the place empty during the holidays. Reminds me too much of my childhood.” 

While Happy stepped up to shake your dad’s hand, May walked over to hug you in turn. “Hey, you. How’s it going?” she asked. 

“Fine,” you lied. She was warm and smelled like honey. To your vast relief, she did not contradict your answer. Peter had kept his word. His aunt didn’t know your dirty secret yet either. 

Clearly, Peter wasn’t _happy_ about this, though. His hug following May’s was as stiff as it had ever been. He raised his eyebrows as he moved away, and there was no need for him to speak for you to understand what he was getting at. You replied with a minuscule shake of your head. His eyebrows contracted into one long line. The next look you sent him was pleading: _please, please understand._

This silent conversation might have gone on for some time, had Happy not interrupted with, “You two can make googly eyes at each other over the table, can’t you? I’m starving.” 

“Coming!” you and Peter said, in similarly high-pitched voices. One last shared glance, then you trooped after the adults to the dining room where Pepper was waiting, a tiny pine wreath worked into a halo atop her long red hair. 

“Merry Christmas!” May said cheerfully, sliding into the seat across from her. 

“I’m not sure what’s so merry about it,” Pepper griped. 

Happy smiled as he sat down next to his girlfriend. “Pregnancy treating you well, I take it?” 

“Unless you want to find out how it feels to be stabbed by a carving fork, I suggest you don’t mention it again.” 

“Duly noted.” 

Your dad kissed Pepper on the temple before he sat at the head of the table. She sent him a look of pure venom in return. Luckily the seating arrangements left you and Peter across from each other with a gap between you and your hormonal step-mother. The subject you _needed_ to speak of couldn’t be brought up without notice, but at least you could count on Happy and your father to bear the brunt of Pepper’s temper. 

Soon, everyone was too caught up in eating to give anymore thought to your strange behavior. Mashed potatoes, turkey, stuffing, sweet potato casserole, and latkes mingled together on every plate. Pepper took a whole extra scoop of the casserole, the dish you’d spent the better part of the morning laboring over to get just like the one your mother used to make. You remained so busy inhaling your own food that it took you nearly emptying your plate to realize that Peter hadn’t touched his. 

“You okay?” you asked. 

“No,” he said incredulously. 

A great swooping sensation filled your stomach, as though you’d just gone tumbling off the top of the tower or something. He really wanted to talk about this _here_? _Now_? Okay, so you hadn’t really done a lot of communicating with him since he’d left the day you’d told him the awful truth—but you thought you had both agreed it would be too easy for his aunt or your dad to accidentally see a text message they shouldn’t! Your dad’s Christmas dinner party was hardly the place to resume the discussion, even if all the adults seemed thoroughly invested in whatever conversation _they_ were having. 

Peter looked over to see the same thing you did. Apparently that did enough to assuage _his_ nerves, because he plowed right on: 

“I thought you were going to tell him!” 

“I _was_,” you whispered hotly. 

“Then what _happened_?” 

“What happened was that we wound up having _this_!” 

“So?” 

“_So_? Peter, what do you think would happen if we told everyone before tonight?” 

“Hey,” Happy called down the table. “You guys have something you’d like to share with the class?” 

“No, sir,” you and Peter chorused. 

You both immediately crammed huge bites of food into your mouths to prevent anyone from asking further questions. Happy’s eyes narrowed, but after a moment of uncomfortable silence, the four adults returned to their own conversation. Peter, on the other hand, did _not_ return to anything resembling inconspicuous behavior. 

“We can’t just not tell anybody, [Name]! Someone’s gonna find out.” 

“I _know_, okay?” 

“I don’t like keeping secrets.” 

You tossed your fork onto your plate, completely oblivious to the clatter that arose from doing so. “Oh, _that’s_ rich, coming from the boy with an entire _secret identity_.” 

“That’s not the same thing.” 

“What’s the difference?” 

“Are you guys breaking up?” 

This time, it was May that interrupted you. Again, you and Peter swapped horrified looks. 

“No!” he said. 

“Not at all!” you added. 

“We’re good.” 

“Great, really.” 

“Can I have some more latkes?” 

None of them so much as glanced at Peter’s plate, which was, in fact, still full of latkes. Instead, after staring at the two of you for quite some time, all of the adults turned to look at each other. 

“Peter’s been acting a little _odd_ this week,” May said apologetically. 

“Teenagers,” said your dad. “[Name]’s been skulking around, too. I’ve hardly seen her since she finished her finals.” 

“You know, Peter started behaving like that after the spider bit him.” 

“What,” said Happy, “you think [Name]’s transforming into the Amazing Spider-Girl?” 

“Nah, she’d tell me if she getting superpowers. Right, [Name]?” asked your dad. 

“Right,” you said weakly. 

“She tells me everything.” 

“No teenage girl tells her father _everything_,” Pepper put in. 

“And you’d know this…how?” 

“Because I was once a teenage girl myself.” 

“Right,” your dad said. “Hard to remember with that belly you’ve got going.” 

Pepper slammed her silverware down and let out a single bitter laugh. “All the insane people you’ve fought through the years, and you’ve decided the way you want Iron Man to die is via his _wife_ strangling him the night before Christmas. I’d have thought you’d try for something a little more dramatic.” 

“Want me to hold him down for you?” Happy offered. 

“You’re fired,” said your dad. 

“You can’t fire me. Who else is going to pick your sprog up from school?” 

“I will.” 

Happy snorted. “Yeah, she’ll love that.” 

“She will,” your dad said indignantly. “Right, [Name]? [Name]?” 

Tears obscured your vision so terribly that you could no longer see the room around you, nor the face of the boy sitting only a few feet away. The sound of several chairs being pushed back reached your ears, so you _knew_ that it wasn’t only your father that had seen the water coursing down your cheeks. You still couldn’t stop crying. Though you made no noise, the strength it took to keep yourself in one piece put a sort of roaring in your ears. 

You had _not_ told your father everything. You had _lied_, not only to his face, but to his AI, to his wife, and even to his friends and coworkers. There he was, _defending_ you and all the while _you_ sat across from Peter defending all the selfish reasons you couldn’t tell the truth. Your father _trusted_ you—and it wasn’t even that that had finally cracked the fragile veneer of normalcy you’d been clinging so hard to. No, that was _Pepper_, a woman who people couldn’t even conceive of ever having been a teenager because she was pregnant. A teenager was what you _were_! How could you ever— 

“Oh, honey.” May’s soft voice accompanied a comforting hand on your shoulder. “What’s the matter? I’m sorry if I interrupted. You and Peter can go somewhere else to talk.” 

“They most certainly cannot,” said your dad. 

“What did you do to the girl?” Happy asked. 

“I didn’t _do_ anything!” Peter said, in that high voice of his that he only reached when so nervous. 

May shushed the men and turned your chair to face her. She alone was close enough for you to see the worry in her huge brown eyes. Clearly _she_ couldn’t see the guilt in your face, because she lifted a hand and smoothed your hair with it—thoroughly ruining the elaborate hairdo you’d put it in, but who cared about that at a time like this? You practically launched yourself into her chest. A brief sound of confusion vibrated against your face; she did not, however, shove you away. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” she said soothingly. 

But it wasn’t. Nothing was ever going to be okay again. You were _pregnant_. In one fell swoop, you had ruined your life; you had ruined Peter’s life; and you’d probably ruined your dad and Pepper’s life, too. May's chest only somewhat muffled the gigantic sobs bursting out of your mouth. Still, the somewhat was enough to allow you to hear the rest of the conversation nearby: 

“Kid, I really hate to kick you off the team, but if you hurt my daughter—” 

“I didn’t! Mr. Stark, I _swear_ I wasn’t breaking up with her!” 

“He’s kidding, Peter.” 

“Who said I was kidding? I take my daughter’s happiness _very_ seriously.” 

You couldn’t take it. You couldn’t take the idea of your dad firing Peter because of something _you_ had done, something that was happening to _you_. You couldn’t take May comforting you when she would stop the minute she discovered the truth. And yet you didn’t have the strength to pull away from her. For days, you had wanted nothing more than someone to hold you, but were unable to explain why without giving yourself away. So you turned your head, just enough to expose half of your face to the cold world awaiting it. 

“I’m pregnant,” you said hoarsely. 

Only May seemed to hear. She stiffened, then slowly pushed you back into your chair. Her eyes were huge in her face. Meanwhile, Peter, Happy, and your dad continued to argue: 

“You must have done _something_. Is this about her not going to that slumber party with Lila?” your dad said. 

“Since when was [Name] having a slumber party with Lila?” Peter asked in a panic. 

“I’m _pregnant_!” 

The words exploded out of you upon repeating. They sucked the rest of the sound out of the room the moment they hit the air. Each other person there turned one by one to look at you, their expressions each a near-perfect mirror of May’s—or so you assumed, because you began crying too hard to see once again. 

“I-I snuck out to see Peter the night the Avengers were Rotruvia. I knew he’d be alone because Dad told me May and Happy were going on a date! We-we had sex. _I’m_ the one that started it. Not P-Peter!” They _had_ to know that. They _needed_ to know that. The world _needed_ Spider-Man; it did not need you. But that was not the only secret that needed unveiling. Now unlocked, your mouth couldn’t stop moving. You went on: “I didn’t even have a group project at school. I-I l-lied so I would have time to by a preg-pregnancy test at the store before Happy came to pick me u-up. And-and-and then I lied about why I wouldn’t come out of my room and I-I-I _don’t want to have a baby_!” 

No one said a single word. Silence fell so thoroughly in the dining room that you could have heard a pin drop. Instead, all you heard was Pepper continuing her meal at the other end of the table. 

“Really? We’re kind of having a moment here,” your dad said. 

“She’s _your_ daughter,” Pepper replied. 

“Yeah. It’s really starting to look that way, isn’t it?” 

You had expected him to be angry. Heck, you’d expected him to be disappointed, which was exactly how he sounded. All that mental preparation for it amounted to nothing in the end. Looking at your father after that was beyond comprehension. Before anything more could be said, you stood and ran from the room. At least Peter’s career was safe. The chances of you being safe anywhere anymore were slim to none. Maybe the best present you could give Pepper and your dad was getting packed before they _told_ you to move out.


	5. Making Plans

As it turned out, packing your entire life into a single bag was a lot more difficult now than it had been when you’d run off to New York from your foster home. Not only did you have a lot more junk that you weren’t eager to depart with, but you also couldn’t stop crying long enough to actually _see_ what you picking up off the floor, out of your closet, and from your dresser drawers. 

All that pent-up emotion from the past few weeks burst out of your chest in painful sobs. You could only hope the fistfuls of clothes crammed into your open suitcase were useful, but there wasn’t any time for you to wait until the tears stopped. The sooner you got out of Avengers Tower, the better. What were the chances you would _ever_ stop crying now anyway? 

Then you touched something soft and familiar crammed at the back of one of those drawers. Even blind, you would have known what it was: your favorite stuffed animal, given to for a birthday long, long ago. You pulled it to your chest at once and buried your face in it. The plush smelled like home—like your _old_ home in Tennessee, before your mom got so sick, before you went and got pregnant with a baby of your own. 

Your knees hit the floor. At last you quit sobbing, and instead leaked quiet tears into the stuffed animal’s soft, worn head. If you could have gone back to that more innocent time, you would have. Though you missed your mother terribly all the time, like a stomachache that never left, you missed her more in that miserable moment than you had since the weeks following her passing. She’d have been angry with you, of course…but maybe she would have understood, too. No one else did; that was another indisputable fact of life. 

“Uh…did FRIDAY forget to inform me of a recent tornado localized in your bedroom?” 

The sound of your father’s voice only caused you to curl harder around your stuffed animal. Maybe if you wished hard enough, you _could_ travel back to a happier past. Stranger things happened in this world. They didn’t call this time period the Age of Miracles for nothing...but those miracles were not for you. You remained kneeling on the floor in the exact same time you started at. 

Your father sighed. “What are you doing in here? 

“What does it—it l-_look_ like I’m doing?” you asked amidst a multitude of hiccups. 

“Installing a Bansky-esque art piece spotlighting the materialism of teenage girls?” 

“No.” 

Standing, still clutching the stuffed animal as though your life depended on it, you turned back to your bed. You didn’t look at your father at all as you walked slowly back to the open suitcase that lay on your duvet. There you placed the plush atop the mishmash of clothes, makeup, and hair products already stuffed inside. Then and only then did you manage a deep enough breath to finally face your father. 

“I’m packing,” you said. 

“Packing,” he repeated. 

“Yes. So I can leave.” 

He nodded. “Right. And you’re planning to go…where afterward?” 

His question drew you up short. Where _were_ you going to go? May and Peter didn’t have the resources to take you and your growing baby in. You had no family on your mother’s side to turn to, as they had all abandoned her when she chose to keep you and refused to tell a single soul who your father was. And even if your grandparents on your father’s side hadn’t died long before you were born, you really doubted Howard or Maria Stark would have been all that jazzed about your teenage pregnancy either. Homeless shelters were always an option, but all you knew about those was that the thought of them sent a cascade of ice sliding down your spine. 

“I…I don’t know,” you said. 

“You don’t know. Because you’re fifteen. And you’re also an idiot.” 

“I _have_ to leave!” His statement about your idiocy stung no matter how true it was. “It’s not like I can stay _here_! You and Pepper don’t want me and a baby hanging around, not when she's already having one! I ruined everything. I—” 

Someone knocked on the outside of the open door. Startled, you inhaled shakily as Pepper herself made her way into the room. 

“Sorry I’m late,” she said. “What’s this nonsense about me not wanting you around?” 

“[Name]’s packing up her things so she can run away,” your dad explained. 

“What? You can’t _leave_. Why did you tell her that she has to leave?” 

“_Me_? I didn’t get a chance to tell her much of anything before you showed up!” 

“You said enough to call me an idiot,” you said. 

“Tony!” 

“It was _mostly_ rhetorical,” he protested. 

“Oh, so it was partially _not_ rhetorical?” she asked. 

“In case you’re just now joining us, Pep, she got herself _pregnant_!” 

“So did her mother. From _you_! Do you really want to _continue_ this cycle?” 

They were fighting—not the mortifying kind of fighting they did to get the other all hot and bothered, or the kind of fighting they did when Pepper called your dad out on something he _knew_ he was being stupid about. No, this was _real_ fighting. They were really mad at each other, and it was because of _you_. 

“I’m sorry, since when did you give a damn about this?” your father asked. “Just a few minutes ago, you wouldn’t stop eating long enough to say anything because she’s ‘my’ daughter!” 

“Because she _is_. It’s not my place to discipline her.” 

“Then what are you doing here _now_?” 

“Making sure the situation doesn’t escalate!” 

This was the absolute last thing you wanted. This was why you knew you had to get out of there. Your dad loved Pepper, probably more than he had ever loved your mom. Pepper loved your dad, too, even when _her_ baby was driving her up a wall. How could _you_ be the cause of their breakup? You weren’t ever supposed to have been in your father’s life to begin with. 

“Would you give me two seconds to explain myself?” he demanded. 

“Not if it’s to—” 

“I’m leaving!” you shrieked. Both of them stared at you. “I _can’t_ stay here! Not when you guys are like this. I don’t want to wind up making you guys get a divorce!” 

They both stopped arguing at once. No one said another word. Not even FRIDAY had anything to add. Then Pepper threw your dad a confused look and said: 

“Divorce?” 

Her bewilderment gave him enough of a break in the argument to get back to his original point. “We are not getting a divorce. You,” he pointed from you to the bed, “sit down. Now.” 

He sounded so serious that you had no choice but to obey. Pepper remained where she stood next to the door until he said, “You should sit down, too. I’m _not_ about to kick [Name] out, okay?” he added at the look on her face. 

“You’re not?” you asked. 

“No. You're my daughter, and now that I've got you, I'm not going to let you just run off on me.” 

“But I thought…I thought you’d be mad at me.” 

“Oh, I _am_.” Grabbing your desk chair (Pepper had sank into the beanbag chair), he pulled it right up next to you. “I am _very_ mad. I thought you knew better. No. You don’t get to cry anymore, because we need to have an actual _discussion_.” 

Stopping this fresh wave of tears seemed impossible, but your dad shoved the same Kleenex box Peter had offered you the week before against your hand so hard that you knew you had to try. One tissue pressed into your face later, you nodded. 

“You’ve made a mistake. A really big one. It’s going to change your whole life. It’s going to change a lot of people’s lives. You should have realized what you were risking. If you’d come to me and asked about it, I might have been able to talk you out of it.” 

“Coming from someone whose had enough casual sex to have a daughter he wasn’t aware of, I’m not sure that would have done her much good,” Pepper said. 

“That’s different.” 

“Why’s that?” 

“Because I’m a _girl_,” you said tearfully. 

That only seemed to make him angrier. “Because I thought you were better than I was!” he snapped. “Because I thought you were smart enough to avoid making my mistakes!” 

Your mouth fell open right around your soggy Kleenex. What were you supposed to say to that? What _could_ you say to that? Thankfully, before your father could demand you speak up for yourself, a tiny stampede could be heard coming up the hall. Peter appeared in your doorway, breathless in a way you’d never seen him before. May was right behind him; Happy must have seen the writing on the wall and wisely decided to stay at the table. 

“Mr. Stark!” Peter gasped. “I need to say—you have to know—it’s not [Name]’s fault! Punish _me_, not her!” 

“No, it was _my_ fault. I’m the one that suggested it! Don’t fire, Peter, Daddy. You need him!” 

Your dad rolled his eyes so hard that they looked in danger of exiting his skull. He didn’t answer, but instead pointed once more from Peter’s chest to you. Peter took the direction and shamefacedly crept over to sit down by your side. May followed him into the bedroom. Her stare burned through your skin. You wished that she would go away, but you didn’t think you had enough sympathy points to ask to have May and Pepper leave while your dad yelled at you. 

“It’s _both_ your faults. I don’t want to hear anymore love martyr crap. It takes two to tango. What _I_ want to know is how neither of you supposedly super-smart _children_ didn’t have enough brain cells to rub together to remember to use protection,” he said. 

“We _did_!” you said. 

“Yeah! We used a condom,” Peter added. 

“Let me guess,” Pepper said flatly. “You used a condom you’ve been carrying around in your wallet since your school passed them out the day you had to watch your video on male puberty.” 

Peter’s open mouthed blank stare was enough of an answer. 

“Again. I _was_ a teenager, once upon a time,” she grumbled. 

“Okay. There’s that story,” said your dad. 

“Mr. Stark, I’m _really_ sorry—” 

“As you should be.” 

“Dad, _please_ don’t fire Peter!” you begged. 

“I’m not going to. He’s going to need the paycheck to support your baby once you have it.” 

“Baby’s aren’t cheap,” May said, her arms crossed. 

“I-I know,” Peter said. “I can get a second job, too. Anything!” 

“I don’t want your grades slipping. You’ve worked too hard to just drop out of high school.” 

While he continued to trip over himself trying to assure everyone he would not end up a deadbeat dad _or_ a high school dropout, you stared unseeingly at the carpet below. Babies weren’t cheap. Babies ruined your grades. Babies required uprooting oneself from the city they knew to avoid all the stigma, if one didn’t have a baby at the right time or in the right way. You had known in an abstract sort of way that your baby would change your entire life. It didn’t take your father pointing that out for you to be aware of it. But all of a sudden, reality crashed over you like a ton of bricks: Your body was not the only thing that would twist into something unrecognizable after this. Your family. Your relationship with Peter. _Everything_ was going to change. 

“There’s a lot more than money that you need to think about,” your dad said. “For instance, where are you and [Name] and the baby going to live? Are you going to get married?” 

Your head shot right up. You heard Peter say as though from a very great distance, “Absolutely I will marry her!” 

Every eye in the room turned to you. 

“Well, [Name]? Do _you_ have anything to add?” your dad asked. 

“No,” you said faintly. 

“No? You have _nothing_ you want to say at all?” 

“No.” You swallowed, trying to steel yourself. “No. I’m not going marry Peter.” 

The boy in question stiffened beside you. Probably he thought you meant that you never wanted to marry him _ever_. You tried to discreetly inch your hand over his, though whether this was to comfort him or yourself was hard to say. 

“You know from watching your mom that being a single mother isn’t easy,” your father warned. 

What you said next wasn’t easy either. Just how you managed to do so without more crying in your present condition was a mystery—but you _did_ manage it. “I-I know. I’m not as strong as Mom was. And I know I can’t ask any of you to—to fix everything. And you and Pepper are having Morgan, and you need to be there for them. So you don't miss everything again. That’s why…” Deep breath. You could do this. “That’s why I’m not going to keep the baby.” 

If you’d thought the silence after screaming your pregnancy announcement over Christmas Eve dinner had been loud, this one was deafening. Slowly, you lowered your eyes to the floor again. Maybe not keeping the baby had been the wrong answer. Everyone was certainly behaving like keeping it was your only option. You held your breath to prevent yourself from babbling your thoughts aloud. No one really wanted to hear them just then anyway. 

“Are you _sure_ that’s what you want to do?” your dad asked. His voice was softer than it had been since you’d fled the dining room. 

You nodded. 

“Your father and I _will_ help you, you know,” Pepper said. “An abortion is a serious decision.” 

“I’m not going to abort the baby!” Your horror-colored words came at the same time you clamped your arms around your middle, as though someone in the room might just come right up with one of those spiky balls that tore up fetuses the teachers were always going on about in Health and Safety. “I don’t want to _kill_ it! It’s not _its_ fault that I screwed up. I’ll put it up for adoption. Someone will love it. It’ll…it’ll be happier with someone else.” 

More silence. Then: 

“You know that isn’t going to just put everything back the way it was before,” said your dad. 

“Yes, sir.” 

No one moved for a long, long time. You kept your head down, afraid of what you would see if you looked into anyone’s eyes. Peter’s fingers felt cold beneath yours. 

“Well, I guess that’s as much as we can do for tonight. What do you think, May?” 

“I agree. We should give them both time to think about it. _Separately_.” 

“Good thinking. FRIDAY?” 

“Yes, sir?” the AI said. 

“I want a new program started the minute I leave this room. If Peter and [Name] are alone together in _any_ part of this building from now on, you are to notify every adult on the property of their location _immediately_.” 

“Wh—” 

The look on his face prevented you from finishing your protest. 

“Program ready, sir,” said FRIDAY. 

“Thank you. May, can I get you anything before you go? Dessert? Coffee? A stiff drink?” 

“No, thank you. I think it’s best that we get home,” she answered. “Thank you for inviting us, though.” 

“I’m just sorry it turned out the way it did.” 

“Me, too. Come on, Peter. Let’s not impose on the Starks anymore tonight.” 

Still quiet, Peter slipped his hand from your grasp and hopped off the bed. He did not kiss you. He did not even look at you. May, your dad, and Pepper all left the room. Just before he followed them, Peter turned back. His eyes met yours, and you could tell without him needing to say anything that he was upset. 

At _what_? you wondered after he disappeared around the corner. Not that he didn’t have the right to be mad about the way you’d blurted the news out in front of so many people. Then again, Peter had been the one pushing you to do it! He ought to have been relieved that you’d finally got it into the open. But what else could make him that angry? Giving your baby up for adoption? Refusing to become his child bride? 

Emotionally exhausted, you decided to table your worries for Peter until the following morning. FRIDAY would probably tell your dad if you tried texting Peter that night anyway. At least _one_ major hurdle had been taken care of. Your dad was right: This was all you could do for the night. 

The group had left your door wide open, but you hardly had the strength to care. Sitting up, you pulled your stuffed animal free of your suitcase, then rolled over onto your side. Even with the open door, lamplight flooding the room, your makeup still on, and your nice dress crinkling beneath you, you quickly fell into the best sleep you had had in nearly in two weeks.


	6. Starting to Show

"_Please,_ Dad." 

"I already told you the answer is no." 

"But—" 

"No 'buts,' [Name]. You are grounded, remember? Indefinitely. Maybe even forever." 

"I _know_. I'm not asking you to let me go home with him or anything. He hasn't said a single word to me since Christmas Eve." 

"That's just too bad. I thought the kid had enough courage to break up with you in person at least." 

"_Please_. Just let me talk to him for _five minutes_? Maybe if you aren't in the same room as us..." 

"Rules are rules, much as it pains me to hear myself say it. You have to have an adult with you at all times if you want to talk to Peter, and there's no one available to watch you right now." 

"I'll do it," said a new voice. 

What _had_ been a semi-private phone call between yourself and your father became all of a sudden very public. You had forgotten, in the heat of the argument, that another of the terms of your punishment was that every call you made had to be put on speaker. Piping everything through the car speakers had been going on for a little over two months—enough time to get you used to hearing your dad like that when he called you every single day on your way home from school. Thank _God_ Happy had reminded you that he was there, too, before you informed your father of all the ways you felt too physically terrible to even consider _kissing_ Peter. Happy didn't really need to hear the gory details of your changing body, especially after coming to your rescue like that. 

"_Happy_?" your dad asked incredulously. Apparently _he'd_ forgotten he was having his driver listen in on your calls, too. 

Happy drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as he stared straight ahead. "Yeah. I'll chaperone." 

"You really _don't_ have to do that." 

"I know. But I'm already here, and if I have to listen to you guys go on about this for another six months, I'm going to have to find another job." 

"You're already _where_?" 

"I already drove to Midtown High." 

With a sharp inhale, you looked up. So involved with your begging had you been that you hadn't realized that Happy wasn't driving you straight back to Avengers Tower, nor that he'd been in a parking spot all this time. Midtown School of Science and Technology sat before you. Hundreds of other kids—normal, _happy_ kids—surged out of its front doors. You wondered if any of those kids were Peter, but after so many days of trying to convince your father to let you be there you found yourself unable to stomach looking at any student's face too hard. 

"Whatever she's paying you, Happy, I'll double it," your dad said over the phone. 

"Haha. Very funny. Look, she's played along this long. Give the kid _one_ reason to live, why don't you?" Happy asked in his usual tone. 

"If you're about to tell me you're getting all fatherly because you and May are expecting, too—" 

"Goodbye, Mr. Stark. I'll have your daughter home well before dark. I won't let her out of my sight." 

Happy yanked the phone from your hand before you could register what was happening. If he could have tossed it out the window to be crushed by a passing bus, he probably would have. He contented himself by just hitting the "disconnect" button before your father could say anything more suggestive. You gaped at him. 

"Well?" said Happy. "Are you going to go find Peter or not? I do have better things to do with my time, you know." 

"Aren't you...coming with me?" you asked. 

"I'd rather not leave this car unsupervised in a high school parking lot. Just don't go far, all right?" 

Part of you didn't want to go anywhere at all. Happy was doing you a major favor, though, so you did not argue. In silence, you unhooked your seat belt and opened the passenger door. Doing so let all the familiar high school noise in. The sound of it almost made you blanch. _Normal._ These kids were _normal_. What were you doing, pretending you were normal, too? 

Happy cleared his throat. Flustered, you shoved yourself out onto the asphalt. You teetered for a moment, and unthinkingly placed a hand on your stomach as though to protect it from a fall. This did nothing to encourage you. Only three months pregnant and already you looked it. Your palm brushed against the swell between your hips without any effort at all. It didn't help that your school uniform didn't exactly tend toward maternity wear. Every single person at Peter's school was going to see your ballooning stomach, you just knew it. 

The important thing to remember was that you had finally made it there. _Weeks_ of wheedling and whining, and now you stood on the grounds you'd so longed for. Peter could avoid your text messages and phone calls. He could choose to be so busy training with the Avengers that he had no time to see you. What he could _not_ do was refuse to see you face to face. Only what were _you_ expecting? Midtown High was huge! Wandering through the halls was not likely to send you directly into the path of the _one_ boy you wanted to see. In fact, it was a good way to get a bunch of people to notice Tony Stark's pregnant daughter was there, something that would not be good for Peter's secret identity. 

You steeled yourself. If all else failed, you would walk to the school office and have someone there call him in. Sure, it would be embarrassing for both of you, but you were used to going to great lengths to get what you wanted, whether that be a meeting with your legendary father or sex with the first boy you'd ever loved. Pregnancy hadn't twisted _that_ up...yet. 

All the same, you wished you had something to hold up over your stomach as you made your slow way through the crowd of students headed for the buses. Only just beginning to show still meant _showing_. Your father wasn't likely to give you a single iota of sympathy if someone here— 

There! Coming right out the front doors was the boy you were looking for. He did not see you lurking next to a tree, because he was very involved in conversation with someone else: MJ. You _knew_ better than to be jealous; it made you more like the catty girls at your school. Seeing _your_ Peter smile at her like that when he hadn't so much as offered you polite greetings in months still made your blood _boil_. 

Ned stood at Peter's side, and _he_ noticed you. He held a hand up in an awkward wave. You waved back. That Peter had already told Ned the sordid truth was obvious. His dark brown eyes went _straight_ to your stomach where they widened considerably. They did move quickly back to your face, though. Before he could embarrass himself further, Ned not-so-subtly elbowed Peter right in the ribs. 

A silent play went on before your eyes. Peter clearly said, _"What?"_ to Ned. You didn't need to be a lip reader to see that. Then Ned pointed toward your tree. Curious, MJ followed his finger. She blinked when she saw you standing there. No wave came from her. Peter spotted you shortly after, his smile fading rapidly away as he did. MJ asked the boys something that Ned answered with a shrug and Peter a shake of his head. She stepped away, waved to them, and ducked back into the building. You only derived _some_ relief from her leaving, and that mostly because she didn't kiss Peter goodbye. They'd had some sort of thing going on before you arrived on the scene. It wasn't a complete stretch of the imagination to think he'd gone _back_ to that sort of thing in his anger. 

The thought of this sent a surge of tears to your eyes. You angrily wiped them away, certain that by the time you could see the front steps of the school again, Peter would have disappeared after MJ. He instead stood right in front of you. Ned seemed to have vanished, too. 

"What are you doing here?" Peter asked. 

You couldn't help a sodden laugh. "Looking for you." 

"You shouldn't have done that. You're going to get in huge trouble. Mr. Stark—" 

"Knows I'm here," you assured him. "And we're not here alone. Happy's watching from the parking lot. See?" 

He looked over at the parking lot. A sullen Happy waved from the front seat. Peter waved uncertainly back. When he returned his attention to you, he didn't look much more relaxed. "That still doesn't explain what you're doing here. At my school." 

"Oh, come on, Peter. Isn't it obvious?" Apparently not, given his frown. "We haven't had a chance to talk since Christmas. Or, well, we've had a few chances, but you won't talk to me. You won't even answer my phone calls." 

"What are we supposed to be talking about?" 

"_Anything_. I don't care. Peter," you took his hands in yours, "I _miss_ you." 

His lips puckered like they always did when he was deep in thought, but you held your place, waiting, waiting for him to do...what? Tell you that he missed you, too? Kiss you and make everything all right? Show you a single shred of the affection you so desired? Clearly none of _that_ was going to happen. You angrily threw his hands back to his sides. 

"If you want to break up with me, just go ahead and _do_ it," you said. 

"[Name]..." 

"Or just go find MJ! She's still waiting for you inside, right? And _she's_ smart. Let me guess, _she's_ actually on birth control—" 

With alarming swiftness, Peter moved you physically over to the nearby table with attached benches. You realized a little too late that you'd been screaming all that at him. Even if you _were_ mad and had good reason to be suspicious of his relationship with MJ, saying that sort of thing about her loudly enough for other people to hear was _completely_ out of line. No wonder she didn't want anything to do with you. Guilt surged over you in a great wave. You bit your trembling lower lip, but it did you no good. The weeping began not long after. 

God, you _hated_ this! You hated giving the girls at your school another reason to loath and mock you. You hated being at odds with your father. You hated Peter avoiding you, the derisive articles on every celebrity blog known to man about how "the apple doesn't fall far from the tree," and the fact that you couldn't even _poop_ ninety percent of the time. Most of all, you hated that you'd gone from a girl that babbled when she was nervous to someone who cried at the drop of a hat and shouted obscenities about girls who _hadn't_ made the stupid choices you had. 

The table you were perched upon shifted as Peter sat down next to you. He was about to break up with you, and he had every right to do so. You were not just a horrible girlfriend, but a horrible _human being_ to boot. 

"I don't want to break up with you," he said quietly. 

You did your best to take a deep enough breath that you would quit crying. All this did was make you snort loudly. "Then why won't you _talk_ to me?" 

"I guess...I just don't really know what to say." 

"About what?" 

Sighing, he put his arm around your shoulders. You tipped your head onto his shoulder without a second thought, so grateful were you for this kind contact. "[Name], you decided to give away our baby." 

_Our_ baby. Not _your_ baby. Shame prickled heatedly up your spine; you lifted your head again to gaze at Peter in horror. _Our_ baby. It hadn't occurred to you until just then that Peter really had anything to _do_ with the baby outside of its initial conception. Your body was the one changing because of the baby, and you were doing your absolute best to ensure your life would be the only one changed, too. But Peter considered it _his_ baby as well? 

"I...I'm sorry, Peter." You clutched at your baby bump through the fabric of your shirt. "I didn't...We're too young to raise a baby. I can't ask Dad and Pepper to help, not when they've got Morgan on the way. And—and _you_ have to keep being Spider-Man, and I can't do it on my own. I just...thought adoption would be the best thing for everyone." 

Peter looked down at where your hand sat splayed across the plastic-covered mesh of the table. "We still should have talked about it first. And about the marriage. I just wish—" 

"Yo, Parker!" 

An unfamiliar voice boomed out across the schoolyard. You looked up to see a boy with dark, slicked back hair standing up in the driver's seat of a silver Audi parked on the sidewalk. Several girls about your age sat in the other seats; several more stood around the vehicle. The boy himself wore an enormous, ugly smirk. 

"_Flash_," Peter muttered as he let you go. 

"Is that your _girlfriend_?" Flash called. "Holy shit. Did _you_ knock her up? Or do you just like kissing whales?" 

"Shut up, Flash!" Peter hurled back at him. 

"Bet you didn't even knock her up yourself, Parker. You don't have the balls! Hey baby," he said to you. "If you're still looking for a good time, I bet I can find a few friends for you. We'll even pay you for your time. What's your usual rate?" 

Hot tears filled your eyes, but this time they were born of anger. You might have been pregnant, but you weren't so far along that you couldn't launch yourself off the table in Flash's general direction. 

Peter brought your forward momentum to a halt by grabbing your wrist. He was strong enough that he could keep you in place without pulling you backward. Your feet continued to move beneath you, but to no avail. The next thing you knew, you were jogging next to him towards _Happy_'s car. Peter flung the passenger side door open and practically tossed you inside before Happy could fully roll down the window. 

"Get her home," Peter said as he shut the door behind you. "Now, please." 

"Not that I take orders from you, but you got it," said Happy. 

"Wait! What about you?" you asked. 

Peter had already shifted his attention over to Flash, who was laughing uproariously along with some of the girls lounging in and around his car. 

"I'll call you later," Peter muttered. 

"But—" 

Happy rolled the window up and backed out of his parking spot without giving you a chance to finish your question. Peter turned away. You were left unable to do anything more than watch as he rolled up his sleeves and stalked over to Flash and his gang of giggling girls. Then your car turned a corner, hiding both boys from view. 

"Hey. You okay?" Happy asked, not unkindly. 

You didn't answer. Why should you have had to? Wasn't it obvious that you weren't okay? You were fifteen and pregnant and enough of a slut that everyone at your (soon-to-be-ex-) boyfriend's school could see it. Though you'd thought so an awful lot throughout your life, now it was really true: things could not get any worse. Better start mentally preparing for Peter's phone call, you figured. If he actually bothered to talk to you ever again, he was going to call it quits with you this time for sure.


	7. Kicks

One of things no one ever said during the hundreds of "don't have sex or you'll die" lessons you had to endure from fifth grade onward was that death would be the _least_ horrible consequences of doing the deed. They told you about single parenthood, warned you about abortion clinics, and did their best to terrify you with horrible pictures of sexually transmitted diseases—but clearly none of _that_ had worked. Maybe, just maybe, if they'd talked a little bit about the truth pregnancy, you would have listened. Probably not, but maybe. Because sixth months in held enough misery that you almost _wished_ you had died instead. 

Heartburn. Hot flashes. Leg cramps. Dizziness. All of these you endured in relative silence. Whining about them did you very little good anyway. Doing so usually earned you _another_ lecture from your dad...or thorough reaming out from Pepper, who couldn't really help being so ticked off when she was about three months ahead of you. The back pain you found a lot harder to shut up about. You couldn't spend _all_ your time in a warm bath, not with school and homework and long meetings about what adoption meant and even _longer_ lectures from _Nick Fury_ of all people about the dangers of casually sleeping with Enhanced. 

The uncomfortable hospital waiting room chairs didn't really help matters. They had wooden arms on each side and a beige-ish back and cushion. You used the word "cushion" for want of a better term. No matter which one you tried to sit in, you couldn't stay comfortable in it for more than a few minutes at time. By the time Pepper had been in labor for six hours, you'd tried nearly every chair in the room, much to the consternation of every other person crammed in there with you that warm May afternoon. Probably they wondered what an unsupervised, massively pregnant teenager was doing loitering in there instead of at a gynecologist's office somewhere. 

For the fifteenth time that day, you pulled your phone out of your backpack to check for messages to distract yourself with. None were there. Obviously. Your dad was in the room with Pepper; the rest of the Avengers were answering some important distress call over in Siberia; and it wasn't like you had any friends that were going to check on you after you left school at around ten that morning. 

"Sorry I'm late. Did I miss anything?" 

You looked up in shock both at the voice and the feeling of the chair next to yours moving. Peter himself had plunked himself down there. Wide eyed, you looked around the room for May or Happy at least, but no one was there. 

"Happy's going to pick up Aunt May," Peter explained. "They'll be here soon." 

"Guess they figured there's not much trouble we could get into at a hospital," you said with a weak smile. Sure enough, Peter's sudden arrival had every eye on you again, nurse and visitor alike. You tried not to blush at the feeling of all those eyes on you. Their disapproval couldn't make you _un_pregnant, no matter how convenient that might have been. 

"Right. So? I wanted to get here sooner, but Aunt May said I had to finish school for the day." 

"It's fine, Peter. Pepper's still in labor. I think. Guess Dad might just have decided not to tell me. Probably wouldn't my aura rubbing off on Morgan's right out of the womb," you said, a little bitterly. 

Your baby sister's arrival would take a lot of pressure off of you, but you also desperately missed your dad's affection. What if having a _new_ daughter made him willing to send you away now? 

Peter seemed to read your mind as he wrapped one arm around your shoulders. "Mr. Stark wouldn't do that. He loves you." 

"Maybe he did for a little bit." You gave yourself a firm shake before changing the subject. "So, you were at school. They finally let you back after you gave Flash that black eye?" 

"It was just a quick suspension," he said, like it didn't matter at all. 

But it did. Though no one had told you outright, you were pretty sure that your dad had pulled a lot of strings to keep Peter at that school after his fight. A large donation had likely been made to Midtown High. Peter hadn't even used his full strength on Flash. If he had, Flash would have been turned into little more than goo splattered across that Audi. Fighting at school was still fighting at school, though, and if he hadn't been throwing punches to protect your honor, you shuddered to think where Peter would have ended up. 

You gazed at him, trying to will those horrible, uncharacteristic tears away. He seemed to notice, as he kissed your temple before he took his arm off your back so he could hold your hand. 

"How are you doing?" he asked. 

"I'm okay. _I'm_ not the one going into my seventh hour of labor." 

"Is that _normal_?" 

"I _think_ so." Again, you shifted in your seat and found no relief in your newest position. "No one's been all that keen on giving me details, though. Mostly a lot of talk about my poor decision making skills." 

He let out a small laugh. "Yeah. I got a little bit of that from Director Fury, too." 

"It's not _funny_," you said, swatting him lightly on the shoulder. 

"No. I guess it's not." 

His eyes fell where they'd been falling a lot lately: the place where your hands connected. You felt his fingers contract momentarily around yours. What he was thinking when he did this, you didn't know. Finding out wasn't high on your priority list either. 

"Lila sent me a card, though," you said. "That was nice of her. And when it's Natasha's turn to babysit, she mostly leaves me alone." 

"Oh yeah?" Peter said absently. 

"Yeah. Happy's been great, too. I know he _acts_ like I'm an enormous burden, but I'm starting to think it's only an act. He bought me a _milkshake_ a few days ago..." 

Without Peter's eyes on you, you found it difficult to gauge whether or not he had heard a word you said. The rest of the waiting room had; no one else there was speaking—at least, not as fast or as loud as you were. He didn't look up, however, not even when you trailed off into an uneasy silence yourself. It seemed to magnify all the other tiny sounds in the room: a nurse at a desk turned a paper; a phone somewhere in the back rang; one of your fellow waiters unwrapped a granola bar. 

"Peter?" 

"Yeah." 

"Peter." That time, you kicked his shoe with your closest foot. He looked wildly up and around, only to relax when he saw that there wasn't anyone in a giant mechanical rhinoceros suit headed straight for him. 

"Huh?" 

You sighed. "Are _you_ okay?" 

"I'm fine. Mostly. I just..." You wondered then if he kept staring at your hands to avoid staring at your belly. His eyes drifted slowly over to the swell of it obvious even through your sweater (it might have been May, but your school wanted you to wear _something_ a little less indecent than your usual button down). Then, just as slowly, he brought them back up to your face. 

"You just what?" you asked around your suddenly thick tongue. 

"Nothing. It's...dumb. But you had your appointment earlier this week, right? You know what it—you know what we're...you know what the baby is?" 

Things between you and Peter had settled down since you'd gone to see him at school a few months before. You both texted most nights (knowing full well FRIDAY was keeping logs of every message sent); Happy and May had come over for a much less uneventful dinner (_not_ a fun experience this time either); and sometimes you even got to talk to him after one of his training sessions (so long as Steve or Clint hung around; you didn't exactly jump at the chance when it was your dad who volunteered). All the same, the relationship felt tenuous, like you were walking on a wire just to keep things casual. That was why you sounded so guarded when you answered: 

"Yes." 

"Yeah?" Now that he'd broached the subject, he couldn't seem to keep his eyes _off_ your baby bump. "And what is it?" 

"Peter..." 

"I just want to know. That's all." 

He'd picked a good place to ask. If you blew up in the middle of the hospital, you'd probably get carted off to the psychiatric ward—or, worse, someone would go wrench your father away from the birth of his _good_ daughter so he could yell at you some more for your bad behavior. 

Truth be told, you didn't really want to blowup at Peter anyway. You loved him, and you still felt plenty guilty over deciding to give the baby up for adoption (and reject his sort of-proposal) without asking him about it first. The only thing was that you worried about what giving him that information might do. 

"It's...the baby's a girl," you said quietly. 

His eyes went as round and as huge as one of your dad's largest serving platters. 

"Is that bad?" you asked. 

Seemingly unable to speak, Peter shook his head. Your free fingers crept almost unconsciously to your belly as you watched him. What was he so freaked out about? Either the baby was going to be a boy or a girl. What other options were there? He wasn't the kind of guy to hope the baby was a stillborn, so _that_ couldn't be it. 

Finally, Peter let out a long sigh. "Is she pretty?" 

Your knee-jerk reaction was to remind him all babies looked the same before they were born—and usually for a while after that, too. You surprised yourself by saying instead, "Yeah. She's beautiful." 

"Does she look like you or me?" 

"Me. She's got a real big head." 

Alarm bells went off in your head. What were you _doing_? This baby was growing inside you, sure, but you weren't supposed to get _attached_. She was going to some nice family as soon as she could. You couldn't talk like she was coming home with you. All the same, when Peter grinned, you grinned right along with him. 

"You're head's not _that_ big," he said. 

"I'll take that as a compliment. You know, my mom tore when she had me." 

"T-tore?" All the blood drained from Peter's face. 

"Yeah. Around my head." 

"Is that...is that going to happen to _you_?" 

"I don't know. It's a possibility." One you had a lot of nightmares about, too. The way Peter looked away from you and licked his lips made you think _he_ might start having nightmares about it himself. 

"Being pregnant's really hard, isn't it?" he asked. 

"It's no walk in the park. But," you said, when he continued to stare at his jean-clad knees, "if I had to have anyone's baby, I'm glad it's yours." 

"Really? Why?" 

"Because you're kind." 

"Tell that to Flash." 

"Punching Flash doesn't count. I owe you for that one." 

"No, you don't." Your eyes met once more. Peter's tongue flashed at the corner of his thin mouth. Butterflies erupted in your stomach before he could speak. "Listen, I was wondering—" 

"Peter, don't." 

"I was just wondering what you'd want to _call_ her. If we _were_ going to raise her. What would you want to name her?" 

"But we're _not_ keeping her," you said. 

"I know. But just...if we _were_." 

A lot of things about this situation hurt. Mostly your body, obviously, but also a lot of relationships and your grades and your self-esteem. None of that really made you twinge as deeply inside as considering the name of the baby you'd hardly get to hold in your arms. Logically, you _knew_ you'd made the right choice in not keeping her, in finding her a family that would keep her safe, in getting her into a home that would have room for nothing but love for her. Emotionally, you couldn't pretend you hadn't spent the past few days obsessively thinking over the very thing Peter was asking you. 

"Bethany," you whispered. Your fingers pressed against your bump as you closed your eyes. "I want to call her Bethany, after my mother." 

You breathed deeply in through your nose then out through your mouth, then repeated the process several times. Bucky had suggested that to you last time he'd been present for one of your fun little panic attacks. Oddly enough, it helped...though you assumed Bucky didn't need it nearly as often to prevent himself from bursting into tears in public. 

A warm weight pressed against your hand closest to Peter. Opening your eyes, you found he had placed his hand on top of yours and interlaced your fingers again. Tears sparkled in his warm brown eyes. 

"I think that's a beautiful name," he said hoarsely. 

"Y-You do?" 

He nodded. "I think I'd want to call her May, too. After all Aunt May's done for me, it just seems right." 

"Bethany May?" you suggested. 

"Bethany May." 

"Parker or Stark?" 

"Parker-Stark. What else?" 

Even though everything about the scene throbbed like a healing bruise, you and Peter worked your ways into tearful smiles. 

"Bethany May Parker-Stark," you murmured. 

Peter echoed the sentiment, his eyes misty. Then: “So we really _can't_ keep her?" he asked. 

Reality doused your modicum of happiness like a bucket of cold water tipped over an ember. "No. We can't." 

"But—" 

"But what, Peter? We've been over this a thousand times already." 

He lifted his shoulders, tensing for an argument...then let out a long sigh and leaned his head backward against his chair until he was staring up at the paneled ceiling. "I know. I guess it's just that...I don't even remember my parents. I don't want our daughter to grow up like that, wondering about what _we're_ like." 

"I know the feeling." 

"You do?" 

"Sure. My mom told me when I was really little who my dad was. I kept asking her to bring him in for career day at school. Obviously, she couldn't do that. She probably only told me because she figured if I told anyone, they'd think I was playing pretend. I kinda thought she was playing pretend, too, when I got older." 

"But Mr. Stark _is_ your dad. You knew that." 

"It sounded too good to be true. That's part of why I ran off to see him. I knew Mom never told him about me before she died, and I just thought if he _knew_ me, everything would be okay." Which, contrary to everything the world taught, it had been. For a little while, at least. Until you got it into your head to have sex with your boyfriend. 

"Do you think Bethany'll ever do that? Run away to meet us?" 

"She won't _have_ to. These people who are adopting her are really nice, Peter. They work for SHIELD. They promised me that if she wants to when she's older—when _we're_ older—they won't stop her from looking for us or making contact. Besides," you went on, "Fury's pretty sure she's going to wind up with your abilities, and if she does, there's no _way_ she won't figure out who her dad is." 

"You really think so?" said Peter, lips curling up into a smile he couldn’t quite allow. 

"I do. Oh!" 

Your sudden exclamation had Peter's attention off the ceiling and right back on you. "What is it? What's happening?" 

"Nothing." His serious expression caused you to giggle. It really was a good thing he wore a mask as Spider-Man; he was too cute to scare any crooks bare-faced like that. "I just think that she already _knows_ you're her father." 

Peter's brow furrowed further still. Without explanation, you gently lifted the hand he had resting on top of yours, brought it inches from the fabric of your sweater, and let him go. 

"Touch it," you said. 

"Huh?" 

"Just _do_ it. Quick! She doesn't keep it up for very long." 

His confusion did not evaporate. Frowning, he did as he was told, with many glances back at your face. Did he think you were trying to trick him somehow? You held your breath. If she didn't do it again right away... 

He gasped as he felt that same popping popcorn-like sensation inside you. "Oh my god!" he said. "Is that her? Is-is _she_ doing that?" 

"She's kicking!" 

"I can't bel—" 

"Miss Stark." 

You and Peter froze at the sound of an unfamiliar voice. Your eyes remained locked on each other's for several seconds, but the bubble of happiness had utterly burst. Embarrassed and reluctant, you looked over to see a frazzled-looking woman in scrubs standing with a clipboard only a few feet away. 

"Yes?" You tried to use your most dignified tone. She didn't look impressed. 

"The baby's been born and checked out. Your parents would like you to come in and see them now," she said. 

Both you and Peter rose in unison, his hand slipping away from your stomach and back down to your hand. Neither of you got more than a step away from your seats before the nurse shook her head. 

"I'm sorry, sir, but only family is allowed in the room for now." 

Peter didn't let you dawdle or argue. "That's okay," he said quickly. "Aunt May will be here soon. You go on ahead. We'll catch up later." 

He was probably right. As much as you wanted him with you for this moment, rules were rules. You allowed Peter to pull you in for a quick kiss, then went off to follow the nurse to Pepper's delivery room. When you got to the door leading to the hall, you turned to look at him one last time. He waved. You waved back. 

The tears threatened to rush right to your eyes once again as you turned away. This time, you refused to let them free. You couldn't cry when this was such a happy moment for your dad and Pepper. With a sniff, you rubbed the moisture accumulating on your lower lids away, after which you hurried after the still-moving nurse. What was there to cry about anyway, you wondered. At least _someone_ was getting a happily ever after after all of this, even if that someone couldn't be you.


	8. Hold My Hand

What good was living on the top floor of a skyscraper, you wanted to know. Oh, sure, the view was nice, if you liked looking at the _other_ skyscrapers populating New York City. Spectacular though that might have been, it could not make up for the _noise_. Were the walls soundproofed? Yes—but you dared anyone to sleep through the constant takeoffs and landings of a quinjet at all hours, let alone all the same coming from Iron Man suits. Your bedroom sat _right_ beside the liftoff pads. But all that commotion came from _outside_. You could handle noise from _outside_. The inside should not have been a problem! 

The baby didn't make movement a pleasurable experience. According to your doctor—the one your dad made you visit almost once a week now—she was pressing your stomach into your lungs. _"Sit up straight and stand up straight and it won't be a problem,"_ the doctor said. Oh, sure! What about when you _had_ to leave the room to go yell at your downstairs neighbors for making so much noise in the middle of the day? Especially since you _couldn't_ sit or stand too long, or your freaking _ankles_ swelled up like balloons. 

"Stupid doctor," you wheezed when the elevator pulled to a stop at the floor that housed the training facility. "Stupid tower. Stupid Avengers. Stupid baby. Sorry," you added to your baby bump. "I didn't mean that last bit." 

That you were talking to your baby more was (you hoped) less a symptom of growing attachment and more that of severe exhaustion. Sleeping had become next to impossible the past few weeks. Between being unable to lay down in a comfortable position, the near-constant anxiety, the _lovely_ fact that she was pressing against your bladder just as hard as your lungs so that you had to pee nearly every ten damn minutes, it was a miracle you could rest _ever_. That Saturday you'd finally managed to doze off only to be interrupted by something going on several floors away—and woe be unto whoever came out of that holo-rig first, because you didn't much care who you screamed at for this. 

When the doors to the elevator finally opened, however, you found that there was not some robust training session underway in the far room. Judging by the ash smeared across several faces (and the unfixed cuts and tears in a handful of uniforms), one _had_ gone on that afternoon. Now it was over. It was just that none of the Avengers was quiet (except maybe Natasha) and they were all gathered around one very obvious thing: Pepper, holding her two-month old baby. 

"She's beautiful, Pepper," Natasha was saying. 

"Not prettier than any of _mine_," Clint said, "but I'd put her at a close second." 

"Is she sleeping through the night yet?" Bucky asked. 

"You don't one thing about babies, do you, Barnes?" asked Sam. 

"Have you seen the circles under Tony's eyes?" said Steve. 

"Watch it, Rogers, or I'll give you your own shiner," your dad said. 

"I'd like to see you try, old man." 

"Old! Just because I’ve got _two_ daughters now doesn’t make me _old_." 

“I dunno Tony,” said Uncle Rhodey. “Sounds pretty old to me.” 

“You’re definitely the oldest one here,” Bruce put in. 

Even Peter was there. You couldn't see his face, though. Only the back of his head. Just seeing him made you twinge...or maybe that was just another Braxton Hicks contraction. Every single time you saw him, you wondered if you were doing the right thing. He already seemed to love his unborn child. How you were supposed to tell if that was out of duty or pity or something real, you didn't know, and love wasn't enough to raise a child to adulthood. 

"Hey, _there_ you are!" 

You'd been spotted. Why did that disappoint you? The whole reason you'd risked swollen ankles and shortness of breath was to ask your dad to tone it down. Now that he was looking at you, you wished you could disappear into a corner of the elevator. Too bad that belly of yours made doing so completely impossible. 

Your dad motioned for you to join the group. "I was wondering if you were going to make an appearance." 

"I didn't mean to interrupt..." 

"You're not. Come here. I want you to meet someone." 

Pepper smiled as you approached. You understood then: they wanted you to _talk_ to your baby sister. After you'd seen her at the hospital, you'd made it a point to not have anything to do with her. It looked like that was about to come to a close. 

"Oh, no, I don't think that that's such a good idea," you said, already recoiling. 

"Nonsense. We want Morgan here to know her sister." 

"Everyone else has had a turn today," Pepper said as she carefully maneuvered Morgan in your direction. 

You couldn't back away quickly enough. Even with Vision and Wanda off on some mystical spirit journey thing together in eastern Europe, there just wasn't enough to maneuver when most of the team was crammed in one place. 

"No, really, I—" 

Colliding right into Uncle Rhodey effectively killed what meager momentum you'd built up in your terror. You fought to stand upright for long enough for Pepper to catch up with you. 

"It's okay, [Name]," your dad said, as Uncle Rhodey helped steady you. "You're not going to hurt her." 

Maybe not _physically_. You still weren't so convinced you wouldn't be a toxic influence to her. Just being around her might be enough to do some real harm to her psyche. What choice did you have, though? Surrounded as you were, you couldn't make a scene, and the thought that you could run away on your throbbing feet was laughable. An attempt to do so would probably just wind up with you tripping over air and squashing your baby under your bloated weight. 

Pepper didn't give you time to protest further. She gingerly passed Morgan into your arms, and there was nothing you could do to prevent that save for letting your baby sister fall to the floor. The little girl let out a soft squeaking sound when her mother let get go, but otherwise didn't make a peep. Since she'd done nothing _but_ cry since your dad and Pepper brought her home, you were surprised she didn't erupt into tears the moment she realized exactly who she'd been left with. Being passed around like a hot potato must have tuckered the poor kid out. 

"There," Pepper said fondly. She didn't used a baby voice; in fact, she'd forbidden anyone in the family from talking to the newest addition in anything but a natural tone. "Morgan, that's your big sister, [Name]. Can you say 'hi' to [Name]?" 

Morgan said nothing, just mouthed wordlessly with her little pink lips while her huge blue eyes roved curiously around your face. You couldn't tell which of her parents she looked like must just yet. Beyond the thin blanket of dark hair on her skull, she looked like every other baby on the planet, right down to having ten perfect fingers and toes. 

"[Name]? What's the matter?" your dad asked. 

You just shook your head. Bad enough that you'd spent the past eight months crying in front of the likes of Bruce Banner; you were not about to start explaining the reasoning behind each and every one of your emotional upheavals. Looking at Morgan—how perfect and innocent she was—had made you realize something that none of those articles on the intellectual and emotional stunting of children of teenage parents hadn't quite managed: Adoption really _was_ the best thing for your own baby. 

Did you love her? _God_, yes. You hated what she was doing to your life and your body, but you loved her all the same. All your attempts at distancing yourself from the life growing inside you failed. When she came out, you knew she was going to be just as perfect as Morgan was—more, even—and that was _why_ your baby had to go. If you could so easily corrupt your sister, how much more so your daughter? 

Forget being held back in school or suffering emotional problems later in life because her parents were too busy to hold her. You just didn't want your baby to end up like you. The absolute least you could do was ensure she got placed in a home that _could_ hold her whenever she needed it, could provide for her as only grown adults could, and already knew she might be lifting heavy objects and crawling up walls as soon as she could walk by herself. 

"Hey." The body behind yours had suddenly shrunk. No longer did Uncle Rhodey stand there, but Peter, and he spoke softly in your ear. You didn't turn around. Still you knew that he was staring down into Morgan's face, as though _she_ might have purposely done something to make you go misty-eyed all over again. 

Blinking away your tears, you looked up to see the rest of the Avengers politely averting their eyes. Not Pepper or your dad, though. The latter's expression was pinched in like he was worried—probably about Morgan's safety, worried you might drop her or throw her to the ground if pushed just a little bit further. Sure, your dad was looking at _you_, not her, but what _else_ could have made him look like _he_ wanted to cry, too? 

Pepper stepped forward with her arms outstretched. "It's probably about time for me to get her down for a nap." 

You nodded, unable to speak around the rock in your throat. Then Pepper stepped forward and Morgan's comforting weight vanished abruptly from your hands. 

"You know, a nap isn't a bad idea. Kid, why don't you take [Name] back up to her room? I bet she'd like to lay down for a little bit. We'll try to be quieter this time," your dad said. 

"Okay," you rasped. 

A nap _did_ sound wonderful. Already Peter had an arm around your shoulders to lead you through the parting crowd. 

"But come right back," your dad called after you. "You don't get to _stay_ for the nap. If I don't see you back here in _ten_ minutes tops, I'm sending Steve up there to check on you." 

"Why me?" Steve asked. 

"Because it'll bother you the most," Bucky answered. 

"Yes, sir. I'll be right back," Peter said dutifully. 

"Thanks, Dad," you said, though without much sarcasm. He _was_ being kind in lifting his restrictions long enough to give you a few moments of privacy with your boyfriend. Not that it really mattered if he sent Steve up either way. After this whole ordeal, you shuddered to even _think_ of having sex with anyone ever again. 

You and Peter headed right for the elevator. FRIDAY would still be listening carefully all the way up to your room, so it wasn't like the two of you would be playing a round of tonsil hockey if you _had_ felt up to it. Honestly, the sudden quickness of your labored walking had more to do with the promise of some sleep— 

Then you felt a _pop_ somewhere inside you and froze. 

"[Name]?" Peter glanced over at you. "What's going on?" 

If your face was anywhere near as bloodless as it felt, that would explain the horror on his. Such fear on both your parts was well placed. You just couldn't get the words to explain _why_ to come out of your mouth. Thankfully, you didn't have to try for long. He took one step toward you, heard a splash, and looked down to see the puddle of water that had just gushed down your leg. 

Things happened very quickly after that. Peter's head snapped back up. Then down. Then up again. 

"Mr. Stark!" he shouted, voice cracking on the second word. 

He vanished from your field of vision. You thought you heard your dad asking what was the matter. Peter answered in a rush of gibberish. Morgan started to scream. A chorus of jumbled concerns filled the air. And all _you_ could was _think_: 

No. No. Nonononono. It wasn't time yet. You had _at least_ another four weeks to go. You knew because you were keeping track of it on the calendar in your bedroom! The baby wasn't ready yet! _No one_ was ready yet! Oh, God. Oh no. Oh _God_. _Why_ was the room spinning around you? _Why_ was your chest burning so bad? 

"No!" you shrieked. 

Someone appeared in front of you. Dark hair. Peter? No, your father. He put his hands on both your shoulders. 

"Breathe, [Name]," he said. 

"I-I-I _can't_! I can't, Daddy!" 

"Yes, you can." 

"No. No. I can't. I can't do any of this. I'm not ready, Dad, please!" 

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news here, but you don't have much of a choice at this point. That baby is coming _now_." 

"She can't! _I_ can't!" 

"Yes, you _can_." His steady voice did not entirely calm you, but the soft pressure he put on your shoulders did ground you enough to take a big, deep breath, the way Bucky had taught you. "You're _my_ kid," your dad went on. "You're smart. You're brave. You're gonna see this through. It's going to be okay. First thing's first. We gotta get you to the hospital." 

"No. Not yet. I gotta—I don't have my stuff packed—my clothes are all wet—I need—" 

Your dad all but shoved you into the waiting elevator mid-sentence. "The rest of the team will take care of it. Rhodey's calling us a ride right now. With any luck, there will be _something_ waiting for us by the team we get to the lobby. Peter!" he shouted suddenly. 

"What?" asked the wild-eyed boy still standing in the center of seven adults and one wailing infant. 

"You coming or not? Last call." 

He had no time to answer, just for launching himself over to the lift before the doors closed. Then he was sealed inside with you (still quivering, still wet) and your father. 

"Good choice," the latter said. 

"Yeah," Peter breathed. 

You said nothing at all. Your brain was too busy screaming and roaring and wailing for you to think to _voice_ a single thought. Pain was coming soon. _Excruciating_ pain was coming soon. One more month probably would not have seen you prepared for that, but at least it was another four weeks not to think about how much actually having a baby was going to hurt, or what life would be like living again without that baby. 

A warm weight around one hand calmed the noise a little. Peter nodded from where he'd stepped into place at your side. You opened your mouth to thank him—though whether or not that was what would come out of your mouth once released was hard to say—but were interrupted by a second warm weight on your _other_ hand: your dad taking that one. 

The fear wouldn't shut up. Your legs wouldn't stop shaking. But there, sandwiched between the two most important people in your life, you thought you just _might_ make it. What lay beyond the chasm of labor couldn't be known, not yet. What could be was that you _would_ live to see it, and so would your daughter. You'd make sure of it.


	9. Where Do We Go From Here?

September blew in with no respite from the relentless cheery sun that plagued you throughout the summer. Day in and day out the weather continued on this path, never once considering that you might have appreciated looking out your bedroom window onto something just a little more dismal. At least a quick rain shower would match your mood. As it was, when you sat down at your window seat that evening, everything was just as bright as before. You sighed, slipping your palm toward your stomach...which was, you remembered only after reaching for it, as flat as anyone could hope for six weeks after you gave birth to your premature daughter. 

Remembering this did not help your mood. It only seemed to make the vacancy in your life echo, because it was only your body that felt so strangely empty now that your baby had exited it. Every time Morgan cried your heart would leap into your throat. You would rise to your feet to answer the call, then sink down into whatever you'd been seated in when your memory returned, allowing you recall that _your_ daughter was not crying. She was not in the Tower with you. She was not even the same state. 

"Dinner has been ready for about an hour now, ma'am," FRIDAY's voice said above your head. 

You knew. She'd been telling you so about every ten minutes _since_ dinner was ready. If you hadn't answered her the first five times, you didn't know why she thought you would answer her on the sixth. Sometimes FRIDAY was not the smartest of your dad's AIs. 

"Your father would like to know if you have any intention of joining him to eat it," she went on. 

"No thanks. I'm not hungry." 

"Should he put it away so you can reheat it later?" 

"If he wants to," you answered vaguely. 

Truth be told, your mind was not entirely on the conversation. Food did very little to interest you those days. You had to admit that nothing really did. Certainly not your schoolwork—although that might have had something to do with the fact you'd already learned all this. In the end, all of your attempts to keep up with your lessons while pregnant just hadn't been enough to keep your grades high enough to let you pass on to the next year. At least now you had a chance to do better so you might actually get into a decent college at the end of things, but the way things were going a month into the school year, you weren't about to hold your breath. 

Who cared about math? Who cared about literature? Who cared that the dean was doing you a massive favor letting you come back to her school after you'd not only flunked out of the tenth grade but also been pregnant for half of it to begin with? Not you. You wished you cared. You wished you cared about something that _wasn't_ the whereabouts of your daughter. But you didn't. That was that. 

Someone rapped smartly on wall outside your open bedroom door. 

"I'm just taking a break, Dad," you said without removing your gaze from the window. "I'll get back to Physics in a minute, okay?" 

"Actually, it's me, and I...don't really care all that much about your physics homework." 

The familiarity of this voice made you stiffen and turn right around. Peter stood there in your bedroom, twisting the removed mask of his Spider-Man costume between his hands and looking all the more sheepish with his cheeks red and his hair moist and mussed. 

You half-rose from your seat to greet him. "Peter? What are you doing here? I didn't think the Avengers had anything going on tonight." 

"They don't." 

"Then why are you in—" 

"I had to come see you," he blurted out. 

"Huh? Wait—no! You can't be in here! Dad's gonna show up, and then—" 

"Your father allowed him up here, ma'am," FRIDAY chimed in helpfully. "I'm to make certain nothing untoward goes on, but otherwise the restriction of you not being allowed to be alone with Mr. Parker has been removed." 

"Oh." 

Was that _better_? Labor remained fresh in your mind; there was no way you wanted to get up to anything sexual with Peter. Sure, it'd be nice to be able to talk to him openly for the first time in about ten months, but knowing FRIDAY was still listening in didn't exactly keep things personal. 

"You look...nice," he said, with a hesitant step in your direction. 

You let out a weak laugh. "You're a horrible liar." 

"No, really! You..." Peter sighed, his own lips quirked into a tiny smile. Then he waved his mask through the air. "Guess that's why I have to wear this all the time.." 

"I know I look like a troll. I’ve lost some of the baby weight, but that's about it." 

"You don't look like a _troll_. Maybe a _Harry Potter_ goblin. But not a troll." 

"They _do_ look like they've had some trouble with their hair falling out, too," you agreed. 

How could you speak so passively about your appearance? You'd used to spend hours fussing over your hair and your face and your wardrobe. Now you just didn't care. Peter could pick any hideous fantasy creature he wished; you probably bore some resemblance to most of them. Not eating or bathing or brushing one's hair much would do that to a girl. 

This news about your hair—which, according to your _lovely_ gynecologist, was perfectly normal, as though _that_ would be some comfort—seemed to rattle him enough to keep him glued to place for half a minute. He wisely chose not to ask about it after some thought. Instead, he came to sit next to you on the window seat. 

"If I'd known you were coming over, I might have tried taking a shower," you said. 

Heaven knew you couldn't smell that great. You _did_ shower for school, but without your usual effort. All the other girls in your class avoided you anyway, making it impossible to tell whether or not it was your previous pregnancy or your stench that kept them at bay. Neither could keep Peter far. He adjusted you so that you leaned against his chest the moment he lighted down next to you. 

"I can't smell a thing," he said, "and you know what? That's not even a lie this time." 

"You're sweet.' 

"_I'm_ probably the one that smells bad. I swung all the way over here from Queens." 

Now that he mentioned it, you could smell the familiar twang of outside-on-top-of-boy. "You _what_?" 

"Well, your dad called me the other day—" 

"He _what_?" 

"—and Aunt May was busy and Happy couldn't give me a ride, so I had to come the only way I knew how." 

You already knew what he would say if you asked him why he didn't just take a taxi: He was a little broke. Best to not bring the subject of money up just then; you felt close to tears _without_ starting a fight about allowances. 

"Hm. So what did dear old Dad call you about?" you asked. 

"You. He's...worried about you. So am I." 

Despite this being no surprise at all, you still felt guilt bubble up to fill your empty stomach. You'd sort of hoped that Morgan had kept your dad from noticing just how awful you felt. Too bad that didn't work. Heck, _Pepper_ had tried to talk to you about your mood just a few days ago. It was just that Morgan started crying for a breast before you opened up to her...and no matter what people said about your dad needing to keep a closer eye on you, he'd never been inattentive. 

"I'm fine," you mumbled around the lump in your throat. 

"No, you're not. I know you've been sad since that other family took our baby home. I have been, too." 

"Peter, I'm so—" 

"It's _okay_ that you're sad. It's okay that _we're_ sad. I don't want you to apologize, [Name]. We did the right thing. As much as it hurts, I _know_ we did the right thing. She's gonna grow up with plenty of everything. She's gonna grow up a normal little girl. I think that's the best thing we could have given her, even if it hurts." 

After you gave birth to your daughter, she needed to stay in the hospital for a while. She was just a little early, but that was early enough. Her new family had been kind to let you and Peter visit her until she healed and could leave with them. _Nothing_ ever hurt you more in your entire life that the morning they took her home—only your mother's passing came close. All those tears that had frustrated you so during your pregnancy looked cute in comparison to how much you bawled on the way back to the tower that last day. Six weeks later didn't feel much better, but you had _promised_ yourself the night after you left your baby that you wouldn't cry anymore. 

Peter's words made you break that promise. A high pitched keening noise broke from the back of your throat. Once it started, you couldn't get it to stop. Your entire face crumpled. Peter, rather than tell you not to cry, just held you. He pulled you closer to him and rubbed soft circles into your back. You weren't entirely sure that didn't make you feel _worse_. It was hard to believe that just a few months ago, you'd been plotting to sneak over to his place the first time you caught wind of Peter being alone to do the very thing that was now making you so sad. 

"It's okay," Peter murmured. "It's okay." 

You swallowed, hiccuped, sniffed, and at last stifled that one long wail. "It's not. Peter, I _am_ sorry." 

"About what? You've got nothing to be sorry about." 

"I do. I know you wanted to keep her. I...I did, too, in the end. We should have spent more time talking about it." 

"We _did_ talk about it, [Name]. I had to sign all the paperwork, too, remember?" 

"Tell me the truth. If money wasn't an issue, would you have raised her without me?" 

He hesitated too long for his reply to be a lie: "Probably. I mean...she was our responsibility. But—" this he said very quickly and very loudly, "—but I don't think she would have grown up all that happy. You were right. About not putting that responsibility on our parents. I could never ask Aunt May to raise my baby for me. She's already got so much on her plate. We all do. I've got school, and work with the Avengers. You'll be going to college soon." 

"Don't make me laugh," you warned him around a soggy snort. 

"I'll help you," he said. "Whatever you need help with, I'll tutor you. Well, you're so smart. I can do the dishes for you, or—or babysit Morgan when Mr. and Mrs. Stark want a night out. Anything." 

Was there a sweeter boy on the face of the planet? You didn't think so. For the first time in months, the feeling that swelled up inside of you was not fear that he would realize how far beneath him that you were, but genuine affection and admiration. Some squirming got you situated so you could kiss him on the cheek. 

"I'm still sorry," you said huskily. 

"If you want me to say that I forgive you, then I forgive you. Even though there's nothing to forgive." 

"I promise, it's never going to happen again. Next time—" 

"Next time?" 

His obvious alarm gave you some pause. You half opened your mouth, but couldn't find a way to ask him what about those words scared him so much. Nothing seemed as scary as the pregnancy you'd just got through. Finally, Peter seemed to come back to himself enough to explain: 

"There's going to be a next time?" he asked in a high voice. 

"Oh!" Relief surged through your system to the point that it cleared your head more than it had been cleared in the past six weeks. "Not anytime soon. I didn't mean—I don't want to have a kid again right away." 

"But you do? Want to have some again someday?" 

"Well, yeah. Hopefully by the time I'm an adult I'll be a better mother." 

"You'll be an _amazing_ mother!" 

You narrowed your eyes. "You're just saying that because you're my boyfriend." 

"No, I'm not! Am I...do you want to have those kids with _me_?" 

"Of course I do, Peter. I love you." 

Something seemed to relax in Peter that very moment. Throughout this entire ordeal, he'd stood straight and supportive beside you. You hadn't realized until you sat in your bedroom with him just then how much stress he had been under himself—watching _you_, helping _you_, being there for _you_. A reluctant smile spread across his face. 

"Still?" he asked. 

"Always." 

"Good," he said, then again more firmly: "Good. Because when you didn't want to marry me, I thought..." 

"You thought I wouldn't want to marry you _ever_?" you finished for him. 

Peter nodded. 

"Peter, I'd marry you tomorrow. I never want to be with anybody else. I only didn't want to marry you just because I'm having your baby. I didn't want to be one of _those_ girls, even though I guess I _am_ one of _those_ girls." 

Now Peter's smile was back in full force. The brightness of it _almost_ had you smiling back. You weren't quite up to that yet, though. Maybe he knew this, because he stood up abruptly, upsetting you and sending you to the carpet. 

"Hey!" you said. 

Peter didn't look down, even when you shouted. You'd had the baby. Why worry about your physical health anymore? Whatever was going on with your window was _clearly_ more important. Then you realized that he wasn't staring out the window, he was struggling to open it. 

"FRIDAY," Peter grunted. "A little help?" 

"Manual opening of the windows at this height is restricted to emergencies only. Having an open window would be considered a safety hazard," she said. 

"I _promise_ I'm not going drop an eggplant out of it this time, all right?" 

A pause ensued—probably FRIDAY checking with your dad if it was all right to let Peter do whatever it was he wanted. Your father must have agreed on the basis that you couldn't have sex at an open window ninety-three stories up, because something whirred, then clicked, then Peter (who had been exerting quite a lot of strength pulling at the latch) let out a yelp as the window blew open in his hand. The noise of distant traffic and not-so-distant wind filled your bedroom. All the papers on your desk and walls threatened to blow right out of place. 

_Now_ he looked at you. You stared up at him from where you'd fallen onto the floor. 

"Do you trust me?" he asked. 

"Huh?" 

Peter thrust a hand out toward you. "Do you trust me?" 

"Quit quoting _Aladdin_ at me. Of course I trust you," you said as you took his hand. 

"Great." 

Lifting you up was not any difficult task for Peter. In fact, he didn't even look at you as he did it. He turned his head instead toward what you guessed was a sickening drop toward the pavement. Now that he had you clutched at his side, you didn't let him go. Sure, your window seat remained beneath your sock-clad feet, but that, too, seemed to spin when you inched closer to the edge of said seat to better see what Peter could. 

"Peter," you said cautiously, "what are we doing?" 

But you already knew. His smile bloomed into the familiar one you hadn't seen in months. It disappeared almost instantly behind the mask he pulled back over his head. "I want to show you something I should have shown you a long time ago," he said, voice muffled a little through the fabric. "Promise that you still trust me?" 

Your heart hammed so hard in your chest that it leaped into your mouth, making answering with words impossible. You just nodded. The faint, mechanical clicking of the lenses in Peter's suit reached your ears. Though you tried to brace yourself, there just wasn't any time to do so. One second you had your feet firmly on a solid object. The next, he had launched the both of you through that open window and out into the air. 

You hung there for what seemed like a lifetime. Beneath you spun the hard earth that waited to greet you—but you weren't afraid, not because you didn't care if you died, but because you knew that you weren't going to. Though it had been warm when you'd come home from school that afternoon, the coming night combined with your height made the wind that caught your hair and clothes freezing cold. Again, you found you didn't mind. It had been, you realized, nearly six weeks since you felt anything at all, and even the immense pull of gravity on your body was a welcome change to the constant numbness that occupied you lately. 

Before you could begin to panic, Peter lifted his free hand and shot a strand of web at the closest solid object. You couldn't really tell what it was without your own specialized lenses. Did it matter? As the web yanked the two of you forward in a stomach-dropping arch, the arm around you kept you firmly in place. The stars at the very edge of the horizon seemed to fill your eyes, dazzling you just as much as the momentum did. At the height of his arc, Peter shot another web—then again and again and again until you were dizzy not only from the movement but from laughing. 

Soon—too soon for your tastes—he put you carefully onto the sidewalk. Still your legs were shaking too hard to keep you up and you fell to the cement, sniffling and giggling all the way. You stayed that way for a few minutes, too, until Peter's anxious face appeared in your vision. 

"You okay?" he asked. "I didn't mean to make you cry again." 

You could hardly hear him with the sound of the wind still stuck in your ears. Seeing him look so concerned made you let out an odd noise, something between a sob and a guffaw, before you gasped one breath in, grabbed the fabric covering his chest, shoved his mask up to his nose, and pulled him in for a long, soggy kiss. A few people standing around taking pictures of the tower might have seen—it wouldn't surprise you to find a few _Daily Bugle_ articles about that menace Spider-Man French kissing Tony Stark's slut of a daughter out in public the following morning—but you didn't care. Neither, it seemed, did Peter. 

"Wow," he said breathlessly, once you were done. 

"Before you ask, no, I haven't been practicing." 

"That's...good. I think." 

Another garbled laugh broke out of your throat as you took his hand. Peter hastily pulled his mask down the rest of his face when you pulled him after you toward the steps. 

"Come on," you said. "We better get back in there before my dad has a conniption and sends poor Cap out to hunt us down. Bucky'll never forgive us if we scar his husband for life." 

But Peter gently tugged you back and turned you toward him. The white eyes on his mask narrowed in upon your face. "But are you okay now? For real?" 

It would have been so easy to lie to him. There in that moment, you really did feel okay. You felt _alive_. He had allowed you to forget your daughter for a few minutes. But after all that, didn't you sort of owe him the truth? 

"No. I'm not okay. But I think I'm going to get there." 

After a moment of thought, he just nodded. Then he allowed you to lead him up to the front doors of the Avengers Tower. A few cameras flashed behind you, but you ignored them all. Inside you again felt the muffled confines of your home. Peter's presence kept them then from overwhelming you—as did the sudden appearance of your father standing with his arms crossed beside the lift. 

"Quite the show you put on out there, kid," he said. 

You were sure that you would have seen Peter blush had he had his mask off. "Mr. Stark, I didn't really take her anywhere. I _promise_. We never really left the outside of the building!" 

"Uh-huh. You do realize that if you _dropped_ my daughter from that height, she'd probably die?" 

"I would never." 

Your dad looked over at you. That same strange sadness you'd first seen while you held Morgan for the first time appeared on his face again...or you thought it did. He turned back to Peter before you could get a good luck at him. 

"I know you wouldn't," he said. The elevator doors opened, and he pointed Peter into them. "You go close her window. You..." 

His finger shifted to you, causing you to stiffen. What further punishment would you endure for daring to leave your bedroom with the boy you'd gotten into so much trouble with to begin with? You were still grounded—not that that was really much of a punishment, considering your massive unpopularity both at your own school and Peter's. Your father, however, only gestured with his head toward the first floor kitchen. 

"Come on. We ordered your favorite tonight. I'd really like to see you eat something. Besides, everyone on the team is here and _they_ haven't seen you do anything for the past month." 

"I should really get cracking on that Physics homework..." you hedged. 

"I think that can wait for just this once. Lita's here. She's been asking about you all evening." 

"She has?" 

"Yeah. I mean, you won't answer any of her phone calls. I think if you _don't_ see her tonight, Clint might actually try to _climb_ up there to get to you. He seems to think _I'm_ the one keeping you locked inside your tower." 

The thought of talking to anyone at all sent adrenaline through your veins. All this time, you'd avoided talking to any of the Avengers or their relatives. If Uncle Rhodey bringing you flowers to cheer you up wouldn't get you out of your room, why did your dad think something like food would? You didn't think you were ready to look any of the team in the eye yet. What did they think of you? What would they think of you once they saw you with your thinned hair and unwashed clothes? 

"No one cares what you look like. They just want to check in on you. Just a few minutes," your dad promised. "Please? And I guess Peter can join you once he's got the window shut like he's supposed to." 

"I..." 

Your traitorous boyfriend had already stepped into the lift and shot you two thumbs up. "You should go see Lita! I'll be right down. Bye!" 

He was gone. 

"Well, that's that. Unless you plan to walk up all ninety-two flights of stairs?" 

You turned your attention back to your father with your lips pursed. For some reason, that caused him to crack the widest smile you'd seen on his face in weeks. He held a hand out toward you and wiggled his finger before you could argue with him more or ask what it was he thought was so funny. 

"That's my girl. How about I escort you to the dining room?" 

"What is this? Cotillion?" 

"Nah. Just a get together with friends and family. You can handle that, right?" 

You eyed his hand speculatively. _Could_ you handle that? Morgan would be there, almost certainly. Wouldn't everyone prefer to coo over her than have to deal with your goblin-like appearance lurking at the edges of their baby pictures? 

"Dad," you said as you took that hand, "I think I can handle just about anything now." 

"Glad to hear it. I do, too. Just...not the whole baby thing for a while, huh? I'm not quite ready to be a grandpa again so soon." He started to lead you around the lift and toward the back. 

"You know what? I think I can promise you no more babies for at least a few years." 

"Like...ten?" 

"More like five." 

"Eight." 

"Seven." 

"Deal." 

The hand between you bobbed up and down as though you were shaking on this. Well, it wasn't as though seven years was too long to wait. Actually, seven years was a bit of a relief. So was knowing that all your extended family sat waiting for you just one door away. You weren't sure where you were going to go from here, but it was enough to know that Peter and your father would be there with you every step of the way. Their love would get you through. One day you'd be able to support a child of your very own. Even then, your love for your first daughter (and Peter's too) would never end. Though she didn't know it yet, she was the most loved child in the entire world...well, maybe second, if only to you.


End file.
